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[See  page  70 
JOE    LOOKED    THE    MATTER    UP    IN    HIS    BOOK    THAT    NIGHT 


JOE 

THE  BOOK   FARMER 

MAKING  GOOD  ON  THE   LAND 


BY 


>   >       >  • 


GARRARD   HARRIS 


ILLUSTRATED 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

NEW    YORK     AND     LONDON 

MCMXIII 


COPYRIGHT.    1913.    BY   HARPER   &    BROTHERS 
PRINTED   IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 


PUBLISHED    SEPTEMBER.     1913 


E-O 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

JOE  LOOKED  THE  MATTER  UP  IN  HIS  BOOK  THAT  NIGHT  Frontispiece 

JOE   WAS  TOO  BUSY  TO  NOTICE  HIM Facing  p.    20 

"WHAT'S   YER   HURRY,   TOM?"     . "             52 

"THAT'S  THE  EARLIEST   BALE   I'VE   EVER   SEEN   IN   THIS 

county" "         76 

picking  cotton  in  the  south "        80 

the   farmers   were  attracted  by  the  inspiring 

sight  of  joe's  fine  acre "       304 


961 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 


•  ••   >     ■> 

•  *•    »  * 


JOE,  THE  BOOK  FARMER 


CHAPTER  I 

"   A^'  'hain't  no  use>  a  Poor  man  ain't  got  no 

l\  chance  in  this  danged  country.  If  I  had 
enough  money  to  move  on  I'd  go  to  Oklahomy." 

Tom  Weston  thus  delivered  himself  after  tak- 
ing his  year's  crop  of  cotton  to  town.  When  he 
finished  "settling  up"  for  the  twelve  months' 
advances  of  provisions,  clothing,  fertilizer,  and 
feed  for  his  two  scrawny  horses,  with  ten  per 
cent,  interest  on  the  whole  amount,  in  addition 
to  the  three  bales  of  cotton  as  rent  he  had  to  pay 
for  the  dilapidated  farm  he  occupied,  he  was 
still  in  debt. 

Tom  Weston  had  never  owned  a  foot  of  land — 
and  he  was  forty-six  years  old.  His  father  had 
never  owned  a  foot  of  land,  and  died  in  debt 
at  the  end  of  a  long  life,  the  scant  proceeds  of  his 
misdirected  labors  going  always  to  others. 

Joe  Weston,  fourteen  years  old,  had  the  same 
i  i 


JQEr  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

unhappy  prospect  stretching  down  the  years  for 
him — a  slave  in  the  chains  of  circumstance,  and 
nothing  but  toil,  always  for  others.  For  his 
portion,  existence,  and  the  privilege  of  toiling. 

Joe  had  come  to  town  with  his  father  on 
settling-day.  He  hoped  that  when  Mr.  Weston 
finished  with  the  Somerville  Mercantile  Com- 
pany, or  the  company  finished  with  him,  there 
would  be  money  enough  for  a  pair  of  real  store 
trousers,  and  a  new  hat,  and  a  pair  of  stout 
boots  with  bright  copper  bands  on  the  toes. 
For  four  years  now  Joe  had  worked  in  the  fields 
with  his  father,  and  Mr.  Weston  had  promised 
him  the  shoes  and  hat  and  clothes  this  year  for 
helping. 

In  the  spring  Joe  dropped  the  cotton-seed  in 
the  furrow.  When  it  came  up  he  handled  a  hoe, 
and  helped  "chop  out"  the  surplus  plants. 
Then  came  on  the  bitter  fight  with  weeds  and 
crab-grass,  to  give  the  little  cotton  stalks  a 
start.  The  last  year  Joe  had  been  given  a  light 
plow,  and  he  plowed  the  cotton.  Then  along  in 
the  middle  of  September  he  and  his  mother  and 
little  sister  Nell  helped  pick  it. 

After  all  the  cotton  had  been  picked,  ginned, 
and  sold  Joe  was  allowed  to  go  to  school,  from 
November  until  the  last  of  February,  for  in 
March  the  plows  were  started  to  going  again. 

"Why  don't  you  diversify  a  bit,  Mr.  Weston?" 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

inquired  John  Somerville,  kindly.  ''You'd  be 
better  off  if  you  did.  Instead  of  planting  all 
cotton,  why  not  try  some  oats  and  corn,  an  acre 
or  so  of  yam-potatoes,  raise  a  couple  of  pigs  for 
meat,  put  in  a  good  garden,  and  cut  your  expenses 
down?" 

Then  it  was  that  Mr.  Weston  made  the  remark 
about  moving  to  Oklahoma.  A  shade  of  impa- 
tience flitted  over  Mr.  Somerville's  face. 

"You're  dead  wrong  there,  Tom.  There's 
more  in  the  man  than  there  is  in  the  land.  The 
trouble  is  with  you,  Tom,  not  the  country  or  the 
land.  You  are  just  too  lazy  to  learn  improved 
methods  —  and  you  are  no  different  in  that 
respect  from  thousands  of  other  farmers  in  this 
country.     You  won't  learn  anything." 

"Y-a-a-s,  I've  hearn  a  heap  about  this  here 
'book-farmin','  but  I  ain't  never  seen  nobody 
gettin'  rich  at  it." 

"Nobody  around  here  has  had  sense  enough 
to  try  it,"  retorted  the  merchant. 

"If  we  don't  know  nothin'  about  it,  how  we 
goin'  to  start?"  inquired  Weston,  thinking  he 
had  Mr.  Somerville. 

"There's  an  agent  of  the  United  States  De- 
partment of  Agriculture  and  the  State  Commis- 
sioner of  Agriculture  over  at  the  courthouse 
right  now  for  the  purpose  of  conferring  with  you 
farmers  of  this  county.     I'll  bet  there  are  three 

3 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

hundred  farmers  in  town  to-day,  and  not  twenty- 
five  will  have  interest  enough  to  go  listen  to 
these  gentlemen." 

"Aw,  shucks,  what  does  a  little  dood  from 
Wash'n'ton  or  up  to  the  capital  know  about 
farmin'?  I've  done  forgot  more  than  they'll 
ever  know." 

"  There  you  are,  you  don't  know  what  they 
know,  and  you  don't  want  to  know.  That's 
the  way  you  pig-headed  farmers  are." 

Weston  merely  scratched  his  chin  and  looked 
stubborn. 

"Go  over  and  see  what  they've  got  to  say,  at 
any  rate,"  insisted  Mr.  Somerville. 

"Naw,  I  ain't  goin'  to  waste  time  on  'em 
talkin'  a  lot  of  fool  truck  out  of  books  writ  by 
just  such  sissy  farmers  as  them.  I  reckon 
they'll  be  recommendin'  us  to  tie  pink  ribbons 
on  our  pigs'  tails,  an'  buy  feather  beds  for  our 
hosses  an'  cows?"  He  guffawed  at  what  he 
thought  was  his  wit. 

"Well,  go  around  and  see.  You  can  laugh  at 
them  if  they  do  advise  fool  things  like  that." 

"Naw,  ain't  goin'  a  step.  Ain't  got  time. 
Jim  Sullivan  told  me  he  was  goin'  to  get  a  jug 
of  the  real  old  red-eye  on  th'  noon  train,  an' 
me  an'  him  is  goin'  to  drown  our  sorrer." 

"Leave  that  stuff  alone,  Tom,"  said  the  kind- 
hearted  old  merchant,  who  had  known  him  from 

4 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

his  boyhood;  "that  is  one  reason  why  you  are 
about  down  and  out  now." 

"Dad,  let  me  go  to  the  farmers'  meeting?" 

Both  men  looked  around.  Joe  had  been 
seated  on  a  sack  of  beans  at  the  end  of  the  coun- 
ter and  in  the  shadow  of  the  desk.  His  father 
had  forgotten  him,  and  Mr.  Somerville  had  not 
noticed  that  he  was  about. 

"Ain't  got  time.  Me  'n'  Jim  Sullivan's  goin' 
to  leave  as  soon  as  the  train  gits  in,"  began 
his  father. 

"I  don't  mind  walking  the  five  miles  home 
this  evening;  I  do  want  to  go  hear  those  gov- 
ernment people,  daddy." 

"I  ain't  got  no  quarter  to  spend  for  your 
dinner,  Joe." 

"I  don't  want  no  dinner." 

"That's  all  right;  Joe's  going" to  take  dinner 
with  me,"  interrupted  Mr.  Somerville. 

"Oh,  all  right  then;  but  you  needn't  think 
yer  goin'  to  try  any  of  that  foolishness  and  new- 
fangled lum-de-dums  on  my  place."  There  was 
a  streak  of  stubborn  meanness  in  Tom  Weston. 

"My  place,  Tom,"  corrected  the  older  man, 
gently,  "for  which  you  have  failed  to  pay  all 
the  rent  this  year  and  owe  a  balance  on  last 
year." 

"Well,  's  long's  I  got  it  rented,"  began  Weston. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Tom;  I'll  just  let 

5 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

you  off  one  bale  rent,  and  take  four  acres  for 
Joe  and  me  to  experiment  on  if  we  want  to.,, 

" That's  a  trade,"  grinned  Weston.  "But 
how  about  the  time  he  takes  fooling  with  you- 
all's  projects?  His  time  belongs  to  me."  Mr. 
Somerville  looked  at  him  in  cold  scorn  for  a 
moment,  then  at  the  eager,  bright  face  of  the 
boy. 

"Dad,  ain't  you  never  goin'  to  give  me  a 
chance?  I  go  'round  dressed  in  your  cast-off 
clo'es;  I  work  like  a  nigger,  an*  now  when  I 
want  to  learn  somethin',  an'  try  to  make  more 
at  farmin'  than  you  have,  you  don't  seem  to 
want  to  let  me."     His  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"Weston,  of  course  he's  your  boy,  and  you 
have  the  legal  right  to  his  services,  but  you  are 
making  a  serious  mistake  in  the  position  you 
are  taking." 

"I'm  standin'  on  my  rights!"  doggedly  re- 
sponded the  other,  trying  to  brave  out  the  scorn 
he  saw  in  the  merchant's  face. 

Mr.  Somerville  looked  at  Joe,  who  was  rather 
an  under-sized,  wiry  chap  with  a  good  head  and 
a  square  fighting  chin. 

"Are  you  in  earnest,  Joe?  Do  you  really 
want  to  study  and  learn,  or  are  you  just  talking?" 

"Just  give  me  a  chance — that's  all  I  want 
— and  I'll  show  you!"  answered  Joe. 

"Very  well,  then,  Weston;  what  do  you  con- 

6 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

sider  Joe's  services  worth  to  you  during  the  crop 
year?" 

"A  hundred  dollars/'  answered  Weston,  at  a 
venture,  trying  to  put  the  figure  high. 

"I'll  just  take  you  on  that.  Come  on  back 
to  the  desk  and  sign  up  an  agreement." 

It  was  done  in  a  few  minutes,  the  document 
providing  that  Joe's  services  were  sold  to  John 
Somerville  for  one  year  from  date  for  one  hun- 
dred dollars;  that  said  Weston  bound  himself 
to  interfere  in  no  way  with  any  experimental 
or  planting  operations  carried  on  by  said  boy 
and  J.  Somerville,  and  to  turn  over  four  acres 
fronting  on  the  public  road  to  said  boy,  and 
release  all  rights  to  any  crop  the  said  Joe 
Weston  might  make. 

"Now,  Tom  Weston,  I  think  for  the  last 
fifteen  years  I've  heard  you  complain  that  you 
1  couldn't  get  out  of  debt '  and  the  wonders  you 
would  perform  if  you  ever  did.  According  to 
our  books,  you  owe  us  a  hundred  and  sixty  dol- 
lars, part  of  it  three  years  old.  My  contract 
for  Joe  calls  for  one  hundred  dollars.  I'm 
going  to  do  better  than  that,  and  pay  you  a 
hundred  and  sixty.  I've  wiped  off  the  books. 
You  don't  owe  me  a  cent." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"Now,  listen!  You  and  Joe  are  even.  I'll 
bet  you  a  hat  that  I  can  take  a  fourteen-year-old 

7 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

boy  and  on  four  acres  of  land  farmed  like  sense 
and  industry  and  the  books  say;  we  will  make 
more  profit  off  these  four  acres  than  you  will 
make  off  the  twenty  you  pretend  to  cultivate. 

"Come  on,  Joe,  the  farming  firm  of  Weston 
&  Somerville  is  now  going  out  to  learn  something 
about  '  book-farming ' !" 


CHAPTER  II 

MR.  SOMERVILLE  would  have  won  his  bet 
.  about  the  farmers  at  the  agricultural  lec- 
ture. There  were  less  than  twenty-five  who 
had  come  to  hear  the  experts,  but  the  County 
Superintendent  of  Education  had  managed  to 
corral  about  twelve  boys  of  various  ages  in  the 
room. 

Joe  and  Mr.  Somerville  were  interested  from 
the  start,  for  everything  the  lecturers  said  was 
perfectly  plain  and  seemed  the  essence  of  prac- 
tical common  sense.  At  noon  the  two  gentle- 
men were  glad  to  accept  the  invitation  of  Brier- 
field's  largest  merchant  to  go  to  his  home  for 
dinner.  Joe  was  introduced  to  both  of  the 
visitors.  They  were  young  men  and  graduates 
of  agricultural  schools.  He  and  the  State  Super- 
intendent of  Agriculture  got  to  be  great  friends. 

"I  was  a  chap  just  about  like  you,"  said  the 
official,  "and  I  didn't  have  much  chance,  but 
I  just  made  up  my  mind  I  would  learn,  and  the 
rest  was  easy." 

In  the  afternoon  the  president  of  the  Board 
of  Supervisors  announced  that  the  board  under- 

9 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

stood  that  a  " Boys'  Corn  Club"  was  to  be 
organized,  and  he  was  authorized  to  say  that 
the  board  had  appropriated  a  hundred  dollars 
in  gold,  fifty  of  which  was  to  be  paid  to  the  boy 
under  eighteen  years  of  age  who,  on  a  measured 
acre,  produced  the  greatest  yield  of  corn  at  the 
least  expense;  twenty-five  to  the  next,  fifteen 
to  the  next,  and  ten  to  the  next. 

"You  can  just  add  as  prizes  from  my  com- 
pany a  complete  outfit  of  clothes  for  the  first 
prize — entire  suit,  hat,  shoes,  underwear,  shirts, 
collars  and  ties;  a  pair  of  shoes  and  a  hat  to 
all  of  the  next  prize-winners.' '  Mr.  Somerville's 
announcement  was  greeted  with  applause. 

"Mr.  Chairman,  the  Planters'  Bank  will  add 
fifty  in  gold,  twenty-five  to  be  added  to  the  first 
prize,  five  dollars  each  to  the  next  prizes,  and  a 
fifth  prize  of  ten  dollars  to  be  created,"  chimed 
in  the  president  of  the  bank,  who  had  followed 
Mr.  Somerville  in  to  see  what  his  best  customer 
was  doing  at  the  farmers'  meeting. 

"Now,  there's  something  else,"  said  the  State 
Commissioner  of  Agriculture.  "The  state  will 
give  to  the  winner  of  every  prize  a  handsomely 
engraved  certificate  of  merit,  bearing  the  signa- 
ture of  the  Governor,  myself,  and  the  Secretary 
of  State,  with  the  great  seal  of  the  state  on  it. 
This  is  a  testimonial  you  can  frame  and  keep 
always.     And  in  addition  the  winner  of  every 

10 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

first  prize  in  each  county  will  have  the  records 
gone  over  in  my  office,  and  the  winner  of  the 
highest  record  in  the  state  will  receive  a  free 
trip  to  Washington. 

"An  agent  of  the  national  Department  of 
Agriculture  will  collect  the  boys  at  various 
points;  they  will  be  taken  to  the  capital  as  the 
honored  guests  of  the  nation — the  champion 
corn-grower  of  each  state.  They  will  be  shown 
every  attention ;  the  President  will  receive  them 
especially;  they  will  stay  a  week  at  the  best 
hotel  in  the  city  of  Washington,  see  every  inter- 
esting sight  there,  and  be  brought  back  home 
at  no  expense  whatever.  This  trip  would  cost 
anybody  else  at  least  three  hundred  dollars — 
that  is  the  grand  prize  for  all  the  boys  to  strive 
for." 

"The  rolls  of  the  Boys'  Corn  Club  of  this 
county  are  now  open  to  receive  members,"  said 
the  Secretary.  Joe  marched  down  to  the  desk 
and  signed. 

"I'm  going  to  have  one  of  those  prizes,  too," 
he  said,  his  eyes  snapping  with  determination. 

"We  must  have  at  least  fifty  boys  in  this 
county,"  said  the  Superintendent  of  Education, 
"but  the  sooner  they  join  the  better  it  will  be 
for  them,  for  they  can  prepare  their  ground 
this  fall,  and  that  is  one  of  the  main  things. 
The  lists  will  remain  open  until  March  ist." 

ii 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"I'd  be  mighty  glad  if  you  would  give  me  a 
list  of  the  books  I  ought  to  have,"  said  Joe  to  the 
state  commissioner,  when  the  meeting  adjourned. 

"All  right,  son,  here's  a  list  I  had  prepared. 
I'll  request  the  Department  at  Washington  to 
send  you  their  bulletins  on  the  subjects  of  corn 
and  cotton  growing  and  truck  -  farming,  and 
whatever  the  government  issues  is  an  authority 
you  can  count  on." 

"Here,  just  duplicate  that  order  for  me,  will 
you?  I'm  a  bit  too  old  to  join  the  Boys'  Club, 
but  I'm  joining  by  proxy.  Joe  is  representing 
himself  and  me  too,"  laughed  Mr.  Somerville. 
"I'm  really  very  much  interested." 

As  Joe  and  Mr.  Somerville  went  down  the 
street  the  merchant  stepped  into  a  bookstore. 

"Let's  go  in  here  and  get  started.  I  see  the 
first  thing  on  the  list  is  Elements  of  Agriculture — 
that  sounds  sensible,  like  it  was  a  start  from  the 
bottom.  We'll  get  two  copies ;  you  take  yours 
home,  and  I'll  study  mine  here." 

"Can't  start  any  too  soon  for  me,"  answered 
Joe. 

"Well,  here's  the  books.  Now  you  come  to 
town  next  Saturday  and  spend  the  day  with 
me,  and  we'll  compare  notes  on  what  we've  read. 
When  you  go  home,  have  your  father  point  out 
the  four  acres  we  are  going  to  cultivate — don't 
matter  whether  it  is  poor  or  not." 

12 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"I'd  rather  he'd  give  us  the  poorest,  meanest 
land  there  is  on  the  place.  I  don't  want  him  com- 
ing around  afterward  saying  we  had  any  advan- 
tage on  the  land,"  said  Joe. 

"That's  right;  the  poorer  the  land  the  bigger 
our  demonstration  will  be.  Get  it  laid  off,  and 
anything  that  suggests  itself  to  you,  why,  just 
go  ahead  and  do  it.  I'm  going  to  give  you  a 
check-book,  and  when  you  need  to  spend  any 
money  write  out  a  check  for  it  and  sign  it 
'Weston  &  Somerville.'  I  will  instruct  the 
bank  to  pay  it." 

"All  right,  sir,  but  I  am  not  going  to  spend 
anything  I  can  possibly  help." 

"Now,  let  me  tell  you  something  right  here; 
don't  ever  be  afraid  to  spend  money  if  it  is 
going  to  pay  you  to  do  so.  If  you  can  see  where 
a  dollar  brings  a  return,  spend  it  quick.  The 
thing  to  do  is  to  spend  wisely;  that  is  invest- 
ment." 

"Well,  I  think  the  first  thing  I  want,  then,  is 
enough  hog- wire  fencing  for  those  four  acres. 
Seems  to  me  I've  never  done  anything  much 
except  chase  hogs  out  of  our  fields." 

"You  are  starting  right,  Joe ;  that's  good  sense. 
I'll  send  the  wire  out  Thursday  and  a  man  to 
stretch  it  and  put  it  up.  You  get  the  posts 
ready." 

"All  right,  sir." 

*3 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"And  after  you  get  the  fence  up,  go  ahead 
now  and  use  your  judgment  as  to  what  next 
to  do,  from  what  you  get  out  of  the  book.  Well, 
here's  my  buggy;  the  driver  will  take  you  home. 
Good  night,  partner !" 

He  shook  hands  cordially  and  vanished  into 
the  store.  Joe,  his  precious  book  held  tightly 
in  his  lap,  was  soon  whirled  home  behind  the 
Somerville  trotter,  and  made  up  his  mind  that 
some  day  he  was  going  to  have  a  horse  and 
buggy  exactly  like  that  when  he  got  to  making 
money  farming. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  next  day  was  Sunday. 
Tom  Weston  was  red -eyed  and  surly 
from  the  effects  of  the  liquor  he  had  drunk  the 
night  before  with  Jim  Sullivan,  and  moped  about 
the  house,  snarling  and  snapping  at  his  wife, 
and  little  Annie  and  Joe. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  finished  Joe  took 
his  precious  Elements  of  Agriculture  and  slipped 
off  to  a  sheltered  nook  behind  the  barn.  He 
pored  over  it  until  dinner-time;  then  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  reviewed  in  his  mind  the  essential 
points  of  what  he  had  read. 

First  of  all,  that  plants  must  have  food,  just 
as  human  beings  do;  that  lack  of  enough  food 
or  proper  food  made  puny  plants,  just  as  it 
does  with  people;  that  the  principal  source  of 
food  for  plants  is  the  humus  or  decaying  vege- 
table matter  in  the  soil.  From  this  largely  comes 
the  nitrogen,  the  phosphoric  acid,  the  potash,  and 
other  essentials  to  plant  life,  absorbed  through 
the  thousands  of  tiny  roots  of  the  growing  plant 
above. 

Also,  he  learned  that  the  soil  becomes  barren 

15 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

and  exhausted  and  devoid  of  these  essentials 
with  continued  cultivation;  that  the  crop  takes 
these  necessary  things  from  the  soil  year  by 
year,  and  something  must  be  put  back  into  the 
land,  or  it  will  become  sterile. 

"The  wise  provisions  of  Nature  are  seen," 
said  the  book,  "in  the  annual  renewal  of  the 
soil.  The  grass,  weeds,  trees,  shrubs,  all  take 
from  the  soil  in  the  summer,  but  they  pay  back 
the  debt  with  interest  in  autumn,  when  the 
grass  dies  and  the  leaves  fall  to  the  ground. 
They  are  beaten  into  the  soil  by  the  winter 
rains,  and  by  the  next  summer  have  decayed, 
and  have  given  more  to  the  land  than  the  plants 
that  bore  them  have  taken  away." 

"And  I  never  knew  before,"  said  Joe  to  him- 
self, "what  makes  newly  cleared  ground  so 
rich  and  give  such  large  crops.  Of  course,  it 
is  the  humus  from  the  leaves  that  have  been 
dropping  all  the  years." 

After  dinner  he  began  to  devour  the  book 
again.  By  dusk  he  knew  that  in  order  to  get 
the  largest  amount  of  plant-food  to  the  plants 
to  fatten  them,  as  it  were,  a  deep  plowing  or 
breaking  and  loosening  of  the  soil  was  essential 
until  it  was  light  and  mellow.  This  allowed  the 
tiny  rootlets,  each  with  hundreds  of  minute 
hungry  mouths,  to  have  a  wider  range  in 
search  of  the  life-giving  juices  in  the  soil,  and 

16 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

thereby  furnish  the  strength  to  make  larger, 
more  virile  plants.  The  stronger  the  plants,  the 
more  fruit,  the  better  and  larger  fruit  they  made 
as  a  reward  to  the  planter  for  this  care. 

"Daddy,"  said  Joe,  Monday  morning,  "please 
come  on  and  let's  pick  out  the  four  acres  Mr. 
Somerville  and  me  are  going  to  work." 

"All  right,  I'll  give  you  part  of  that  field 
across  from  the  oak  grove;  it's  so  blame  poor 
it  won't  sprout  peas — I  want  to  see  what  you- 
all  are  going  to  do  with  that." 

"Come  on  down,  then;  let's  lay  it  off.  I 
know  how  poor  it  is,  and  the  sooner  something 
is  done  to  it  the  better." 

A  tape-line  was  secured,  and  the  plot  of  four 
acres,  two  of  the  acres  abutting  on  the  road,  was 
marked  with  stakes.  It  was  poor  land,  dis- 
tressingly poor,  as  the  stunted  dead  grass  and 
scantily  nourished  weeds  attested.  It  was  part 
of  an  old  field  that  had  been  cultivated  for 
sixty  years. 

"I  don't  guess  you'll  do  much  with  that," 
announced  Mr.  Weston,  with  a  triumphant 
grin. 

"It's  pretty  bad,  but  we'll  do  the  best  we 
can,"  said  Joe.  "I  don't  reckon  you've  got 
any  objection  to  my  cutting  enough  locust  wood 
posts  from  the  thicket  back  of  the  hill  to  fence 
this?" 

2  17 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Not  if  you  trim  the  tops  and  limbs  for  fire- 
wood and  have  it  hauled  up  to  the  house/ ' 

"All  right,  sir." 

Just  then  old  Uncle  Jeff  Washington  and  his 
boy,  Abe  Lincoln  Washington,  came  shuffling 
down  the  road,  both  of  them  with  their  hands 
in  their  pockets. 

"Want  a  job,  Uncle  Jeff?"  inquired  Joe. 

"Who?     Me?" 

"No;  you.     You  heard  what  I  said." 

"Well,  suh,  hit  sorter  'pens'  on  whut  de  job  is?" 

"Getting  out  some  locust  fence-posts." 

"Whofer?" 

"They  are  'fer'  the  King  of  Siam,  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact  I  am  having  the  work  done,  if 
that's  any  consolation  to  you." 

"Yasser,  I  reckin  I'll  take  de  job  nex'  week." 

"You'll  take  it  now  or  not  at  all." 

"Well,  ef  hit's  er  hurry  job,  den  I  reckin 
I'll  hatter  take  hit  now.  I  wucks  fer  er  dollar 
en  two  bits  er  day  en  mer  viddles." 

"Not  for  me;  I've  seen  you  work.  You  kill 
too  much  time.  I  will  pay  you  five  cents  a 
post,  and  you  must  trim  the  branches  and  tops 
for  firewood  and  furnish  your  own  rations." 

"Wh-who  gwine  pay  fer  all  dis?"  Joe  pulled 
his  check-book  from  his  inside  pocket. 

"When  I  write  a  check  the  Farmers'  Bank 
will  pay  it.     You'll  get  your  money  all  right." 

18 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Dat's  all  I  wanter  know.  Lead  me  ter  dem 
locus'es." 

1 1  Hold  on  a  minute.  Do  you  want  to  hire  Link 
here  out  for  a  few  days?" 

"Whutdoin'?" 

"Helping  me.  I'll  give  you  forty  cents  a 
day  for  him,  and  give  him  his  dinner.  It  isn't 
any  harder  work  than  I  am  going  to  do." 

"Yasser,  Mister  Joe,  I  rents  'im  ter  you. 
Link,  you  do  whut  he  tells  you,  en  ef  you  don' 
do  hit  I  gwine  ter  take  de  hide  offen  you.  Does 
you  heah  me,  boy?" 

"Yasser,  I  heahs  you."  Abe  Lincoln's  glance 
at  his  parent  was  sad  and  reproachful.  Abe 
was  fat  and  lazy  and  hated  to  work. 

"All  right,"  said  Joe.  "Uncle  Jeff,  go  get 
your  ax  and  start  in  on  that  locust  thicket; 
you  know  where  it  is.  Want  the  posts  eight 
feet  long." 

Uncle  Jeff  ambled  down  the  road  toward  his 
cabin.  Link,  a  big,  overgrown  boy  two  years 
older  than  Joe,  stood  awkwardly  waiting  for 
orders. 

"Come  on,  Link,"  said  Joe,  walking  into  the 
grove  of  oak  trees,  leaving  his  father  in  the  road 
eying  him  curiously.  Mr.  Weston  was  dying 
to  know  what  Joe  was  going  to  do  next,  but 
would  not  ask. 

In  the  oak  grove  the  dry  leaves  lay  more  than 

19 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

shoe-top  deep.  Joe  took  his  knife,  cut  a  good- 
sized  bundle  of  young  sprouts,  and  tied  them 
together,  making  a  stiff  broom.  With  this  he 
began  to  sweep  leaves,  and  it  worked  ad- 
mirably. 

"Link,  you  take  this  broom  and  sweep  these 
leaves  in  piles.  Make  one  about  every  thirty 
feet.     I'll  be  back  shortly." 

Leaving  Link  at  work,  Joe  hustled  past  his 
father,  and  soon  returned  from  the  barn  with 
four  large  oat  sacks.  Link  had  several  good- 
sized  piles  of  leaves  ready.  Joe  held  two  sacks 
and  made  Link  cram  them  full  of  the  dry  leaves ; 
and,  instructing  him  to  fill  the  other  two,  Joe 
swung  the  full  sacks  upon  his  shoulders,  marched 
across  the  road,  and  emptied  them  on  his  four 
acres.  Then  back,  and,  securing  the  two  Link 
had  filled,  he  emptied  them,  the  others  mean- 
while in  turn  having  been  loaded. 

Mr.  Weston  grinned  derisively.  Joe  was 
really  too  busy  to  notice  him.  Until  noon  the 
boys  worked  like  beavers,  and  by  that  time  a 
third  of  an  acre  had  been  covered  with  leaves 
over  shoe-top  deep.  Bright  and  early  next 
morning  they  resumed  work,  after  having  put 
in  a  steady  afternoon,  and  by  the  time  dinner 
was  ready  one  acre  had  been  covered.  Another 
day  covered  another  acre  and  cleaned  up  about 
all  the  leaves  ii}  the  grove. 


JOE   WAS   TOO    BUSY   TO   NOTICE   HIM 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

That  night  Mr.  Weston  undertook  to  have 
some  fun  at  Joe's  expense. 

"Goin'  to  tote  leaves  from  that  next  grove?" 
he  inquired.  The  next  grove  was  nearly  a  mile 
away. 

"No,  too  far;  won't  pay."  This  common- 
sense  view  stumped  him  for  a  while. 

"  Daddy,  I'll  give  you  ten  cents  a  load  for 
what  fertilizer  there  is  in  the  barn-yard. 

1 '  Ain't  none  there — not  over  a  load  or  so.  You 
can  have  it  for  that  price  if  you  get  it  up." 
Mr.  Weston  had  never  thought  of  it  as  having 
any  value  at  all,  and  never  collected  it  or  used 
it  on  crops. 

Next  morning  Joe  and  Link,  each  with  a  hoe, 
began  scraping  the  cow-lot  and  barn  floor,  going 
down  after  the  thick  layer  of  well-rotted  humus- 
forming  material  that  had  accumulated  for  sev- 
eral years,  and  which  Mr.  Weston  had  placed 
no  value  on  whatever.  Eleven  two-horse  wagon- 
loads  were  secured.  Joe  borrowed  his  father's 
wagon  and  scattered  the  entire  lot  on  the  acre 
he  proposed  to  plant  corn  upon. 

"  That's  my  corn  acre,  Link,"  he  explained. 
"I'm  going  to  try  to  grow  some  corn  here  like 
it  ought  to  be.  What's  the  most  corn  you  and 
Uncle  Jeff  ever  made  to  the  acre?" 

"I  dunno,  'zac'ly,  but  hit  wuz  in  de  neighbor- 
hood of  fifteen  bushels." 

21 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Joe  bought  eight  more  loads  of  barn-yard 
fertilizer  from  a  neighbor  at  twenty  cents  a  load, 
delivered,  and  put  that  on  his  cotton  acre. 

Then  he  made  an  arrangement  with  another 
neighbor  who  had  a  plow  suitable  for  deep  break- 
ing, and  stipulated  that  four  mules  were  to  be 
attached  to  it. 

"What'n  the  name  of  peace  you  want  that 
fer?  Yer  goin,  ter  tear  the  bottom  plumb  outer 
this  field.  Goin'  ter  plow  plumb  down  ter 
Chiny?"  inquired  the  farmer. 

"Yes;  I'm  going  to  tear  the  bottom  out.  I 
want  that  land  broke  fourteen  inches  deep; 
cross-broke,  and  then  harrowed." 

"All  right,  you're  the  doctor  on  that.  I'll 
charge  you  eight  dollars." 

"That's  a  trade;  hitch  up.  I  want  to  get  it 
broken  as  soon  as  possible." 

The  plowman  was  greatly  astonished  at  the 
amount  of  leaves  on  the  two  acres  and  the 
amount  of  fertilizer  spread.  Then  he  sunk  the 
heavy  plow  to  the  shank  on  the  outer  edge  of 
the  measured  lot ;  the  four  mules  strained,  and 
a  great  heavy  ribbon  of  dirt  rolled  over  from  the 
plow  as  it  moved  forward.  Eight  inches  below 
the  surface  the  ground  was  sterile  and  poor. 
Below  that  depth  it  was  fairly  good.  This  was 
the  dirt  the  light  one-horse  plows  could  never 
reach. 

22 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

The  great  turning-plow  reversed  things:  the 
poor  dirt  was  thrown  to  the  bottom,  and  the 
comparatively  good  soil  was  by  the  operation 
brought  to  the  top.  The  leaves  and  fertilizer 
were  covered  and  well  mixed  in. 

Then  a  crosswise  plowing  at  the  same  depth, 
to  break  up  the  packed  soil  and  immense  hard 
flakes,  and  a  harrowing  to  further  pulverize  it, 
and  Joe  wrote  his  first  check.  The  man  looked 
at  the  signature,  Weston  &  Somerville,  as  though 
he  thought  Joe  had  gone  entirely  crazy. 

"  What's  all  this  here  foolishness ?"  he  asked, 
holding  the  check  gingerly. 

"You  present  that  at  the  bank,  and  if  they 
don't  pay  it  Mr.  Somerville  will  —  he's  my 
partner,"  announced  Joe,  proudly. 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  to  town  now  an'  see  about 
it,  an'  if  it  ain't  paid  there's  goin'  to  be  trouble," 
said  the  man,  truculently. 

"Oh,  don't  get  excited  about  it;  wait  until 
it  isn't  paid  before  you  start  anything." 

"I'm  goin'  right  now,"  repeated  the  man. 

' '  All  right ;  I'll  just  go  with  you.  I  want  to  get 
some  seed,  and  I'll  get  you  to  haul  them  out  for 
me,"  said  Joe,  as  he  climbed  into  the  wagon. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"TJELLO,    partner!     What    are    you  doing 

11  here?"  inquired  Mr.  Somerville,  as  Joe, 
after  having  seen  the  bank-teller  honor  his  check 
promptly  by  paying  eight  dollars  to  the  plow- 
man, walked  into  the  store. 

"I've  come  in  to  get  eight  bushels  of  rye." 

"What  for?" 

"I'm  going  to  sow  it  broadcast  thick  over 
the  four  acres.  I've  already  had  it  broken, 
cross-broke,  and  harrowed,  fourteen  inches  deep, 
and  I'm  ready  to  plant." 

"But  we  are  not  going  to  raise  rye,  Joe?" 
was  the  dubious  query. 

"No,  sir;  but  we  are  going  to  make  rye  raise 
cotton  and  corn  for  us." 

"How?" 

"Well,  this  is  October.  Let  the  rye  grow 
until  January;  then  turn  it  under,  and  it  will 
rot  by  planting-time  and  lighten  that  old  barren 
soil  a  heap,  besides  furnishing  a  good  deal  of 
valuable  plant-food." 

"Well,  now,  where'd  you  get  that  idea?"  asked 
Mr.  Somerville,  in  admiration. 

24 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Saw  it  in  one  of  those  bulletins  the  state 
commissioner  gave  me  the  other  day." 

"Well,  it's  worth  trying.  If  the  state  says  it's 
the  thing  to  do  I  reckon  we  can  afford  to  do  it. 
What  else  have  you  done?" 

Joe  told  him  about  the  leaves,  and  the  barn- 
yard scrapings,  and  the  eight  loads  of  fertilizer 
he  bought.  His  partner  clapped  him  on  the 
shoulder. 

"That's  the  stuff — we'll  show  these  folks 
around  here  something  about  farming  yet." 

"Now,  please,  sir,  get  that  wire  fencing  out 
to-morrow — I  don't  want  the  neighbors'  pigs 
to  eat  up  our  rye." 

"You  can  count  on  the  wire  and  man  to 
put  it  up.  Are  you  keeping  count  of  ex- 
penses?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I'm  not  going  to  pay  out  a  cent 
except  by  check,  so  we  can  have  a  receipt  for 
every  payment." 

"That  is  sound  business." 

"And  I  wish,  if  you  please,  sir,  you'd  write 
around  and  find  out  the  best  varieties  of  seed- 
corn  to  plant,  and  the  best  sort  of  cotton." 

"Yes,  we  must  get  the  very  best  varieties. 
I  think  we  can  get  a  corn  that  will  bring  two 
and  three  ears  to  the  stalk  instead  of  only  one, 
like  the  sorts  we  have  around  here." 

"And  about  the  cotton,  Mr.  Somerville;  I've 

25 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

heard  daddy  say  that  he  always  got  more  for 
his  first  bale  than  any  other/ ' 

"That  is  usually  true,  if  the  first  bale  is  early, 
before  the  main  crop  is  dumped  on  the  market. 
With  two  or  three  million  bales  of  cotton  all  over 
the  South  being  offered  for  sale  at  once,  of 
course  the  price  goes  down."  Joe  pondered  a 
moment. 

"Then  it  seems  to  me,"  he  said,  "if  we  can 
get  a  sort  of  cotton  that  will  be  ready  to  pick 
before  the  rest  we  will  make  more  off  it,  won't 
we?" 

' '  Exactly.  If  we  get  a  naturally  quick  matur- 
ing variety,  and  give  it  every  opportunity,  and 
hasten  it  along  with  stimulating  chemical  ferti- 
lizers, we  ought  to  beat  the  main  crop  by  three 
weeks  and  get  at  least  fifteen  dollars  a  bale  for  it." 

"Well,  you  see  about  writing  for  the  seed,  and 
let's  get  the  earliest  variety  we  can  that  gives 
a  big  crop.  If  we  just  get  an  early  cotton  that 
don't  make  much  of  a  crop  we  haven't  gained 
anything  on  the  standard  cotton  that  makes  a 
heavy  crop  but  is  late,  have  we?" 

' '  You're  a  pretty  close  figurer ,  Joe.  I '11  attend 
to  the  seed." 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Somerville,  let's  put  one  of 
those  acres  in  oats  instead  of  sowing  it  in  rye, 
and  not  plow  the  oats  under." 

"Not  much  money  in  an  acre  of  oats — " 

26 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Not  by  itself,  but  I  can  get  the  oats  off  by 
the  middle  of  May  or  first  of  June,  and  then 
plant  it  in  Mexican  June  corn  with  cow-peas 
sowed  broadcast  in  the  rows." 

"Well,  that  sounds  better — two  crops  a  year 
off  that  land—" 

"Better  than  that.  I'll  pull  the  fodder  from 
the  corn-stalks  the  last  of  July,  or  first  of  August. 
We  ought  to  get  two  hundred  and  fifty  bundles 
of  fodder  worth  two  and  a  half  cents  a  bundle — " 

"That's  three  crops — fine!" 

"Then  that  corn  will  be  matured  by  the  mid- 
dle of  September;   get  it  off  at  once — " 

"Yes;  then  what?" 

"  Cut  all  those  pea  vines  and  dry  them.  They 
make  the  best  sort  of  hay,  and  you  know  what 
it  sells  for." 

"I  can  get  twelve  dollars  and  a  half  a  ton  for 
it  any  time." 

"We  ought  to  get  a  ton  off  that  acre — that 
will  be  a  sort  of  extra  crop." 

"I  should  think  that  would  be  about  enough 
to  make  one  acre  produce  in  a  year,  Joe — oats, 
corn,  fodder,  hay?" 

1 '  No,  sir,  not  yet , ' '  laughed  Joe.  ' '  The  reason 
I  want  to  plant  the  cow-peas  is  that  I  saw  in 
the  Elements  that  pea  vines  are  a  '  legume '  and 
gather  nitrogen  from  the  air,  and  store  it  away 
in  the  soil  in  little  warts,  or  'nodules,'  on  the 

27 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

roots  of  the  vine,  and  that  a  crop  of  pease  on 
land  is  worth  a  ton  of  commercial  fertilizer  for 
the  next  crop-year.  Then  there  will  be  a  lot 
of  fallen  leaves  from  the  pea  vines  to  be  plowed 
tinder,  and  they  will  add  some  humus  to  the  soil." 

''I  always  heard  that  a  crop  of  cow-pease 
helped  land,  but  I  never  knew  exactly  why," 
said  Mr.  Somerville. 

"Haven't  you  been  studying  your  Elements 
of  Agriculture?'1  asked  Joe,  severely.  "I've 
been  through  mine  once,  and  am  half  through 
it  again.  And  I  don't  leave  a  page  until  I  can 
remember  the  sense  of  it." 

"Well,  the  truth  is,  Joe,  I've  been  so  busy 
here  at  the  store,  and  our  bookkeeper  has  been 
sick." 

"I  reckon  it  is  right  hard  for  you  to  find  the 
time.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  I'll  get  those  pea 
vines  off,  knock  down  the  corn-stalk  into  the 
low  furrows,  then  get  a  turning-plow  and  'bed' 
that  acre  up  on  those  stalks  and  pea- vine  leaves 
and  roots  to  form  'humus'  for  spring." 

"Then  you  ought  to  give  that  land  a  rest." 

"No,  sirree!"  Joe  shook  his  head.  "Land 
don't  need  rest  as  long  as  you  put  something 
back  into  it  for  what  your  crops  take  out.  I'll 
sow  that  acre  down  in  White  Milan  turnips; 
they  are  quick  growers,  and  we  can  sell  every 
one  of  them  here  in  town  before  Christmas." 

28 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Five  crops  in  one  year  from  one  acre — it 
hardly  seems  possible,  Joe!" 

1 '  It  is  possible,  for  it  has  been  done.  See  here?" 
Joe  hauled  from  his  pocket  a  clipping  from  a 
country  newspaper  in  another  part  of  the  state, 
telling  of  what  a  progressive  farmer  there  had 
done.  "I  found  that  paper  in  the  road,  and  I 
laid  awake  ever  so  long  last  night  thinking  it 
over  after  I  read  about  that  man,  and  it  works 
out  all  right." 

"That  is  certainly  l farming  some'!"  said  the 
senior  partner.  "And  just  to  think,  most  of 
the  people  around  here  are  satisfied  to  get  less 
than  one-fourth  of  that  amount  of  produce  from 
their  land!" 

"That  sort  of  farming  don't  satisfy  me,"  said 
Joe,  decisively. 

"Or  me  either,  now  I  know  what  can  be  done. 
And  by  the  way,  Joe,  there's  a  commercial- 
fertilizer  concern  offering  a  prize  of  a  hundred 
dollars  to  the  boy  in  the  Corn  Club  contest  in  the 
state  who  makes  the  largest  crop  with  their 
fertilizer.  The  state  chemist  certifies  that  the 
product  of  that  factory  is  up  to  standard." 

"We've  got  to  use  some  chemical  fertilizer, 
and  we  might  as  well  take  a  chance  on  that 
prize,  too,"  said  Joe. 

"All  right,  we'll  go  after  everything,  and 
there's  a  nitrate-of-soda  firm  offering  another 

99 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

hundred  the  same  way,  but  I  don't  know  much 
about  that  stuff.     Do  you?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Nitrate  is  the  quickest  way  for 
plants  to  get  nitrogen,  and  that  is  the  main 
element.  Just  scatter  the  stuff  on  the  ground 
about  corn  just  before  it  tassels,  and  the  books 
say  it  will  increase  the  crop  nearly  one-third. 
It's  fine  for  cotton,  too — pushes  it  right  along." 

"I've  never  seen  any  of  the  nitrate,  or  heard 
of  it  being  used  about  this  neck  of  the  woods," 
said  Mr.  Somerville. 

"Neither  have  I.  The  book  says  it  comes 
mostly  from  Chile,  and  it  looks  like  common, 
coarse,  dirty  salt,  and  dissolves  quickly  in  water 
or  by  the  moisture  of  the  ground.  That  is  how 
the  roots  get  it  so  soon  after  it  is  applied.  When 
it  strikes  the  roots  that  plant  just  everlastingly 
hustles." 

"If  we  go  in  for  all  these  things  and  win  out, 
Joe,  it's  a  pretty  big  prize  in  money  alone  on 
the  corn.  There's  seventy-five  dollars  for  the 
winner  in  this  county,  a  hundred  dollars  for 
the  fertilizer,  and  another  hundred  for  the  nitrate 
— two  hundred  and  seventy-five  dollars — but 
that  is  in  competition  with  the  entire  state." 

"I'm  going  to  do  my  level  best,  and  when  a 
fellow  does  that  he'd  as  soon  compete  with  the 
whole  world  as  not." 

"That's  the  way  to  look  at  it.     Then  there  is 

30 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

the  state  certificate  and  the  trip  to  Washing- 
ton— " 

14 1  certainly  want  that  trip,"  said  Joe.  "I 
want  to  talk  to  the  head  men  of  the  Department 
of  Agriculture  at  Washington,  and  see  what  they 
are  doing.  I  want  to  go  right  to  headquarters 
and  see  for  myself  and  learn  something." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  money  if 
you  win  it?" 

"Well,  half  of  it  is  yours,  you  know — " 

"No,  indeed;  half  the  crop  money  is  mine; 
the  prizes  belong  to  you  if  you  win." 

"Much  obliged,  but  I  thought  you  ought  to 
have  half — " 

"No,  111  be  satisfied  with  the  crop  money." 

"That's  mighty  good  of  you.  Well,  sir,  the 
first  thing  I'm  going  to  do  is  to  buy  Annie  a 
nice  outfit  of  clothes  and  send  her  to  that  Agri- 
cultural High  School  over  in  Limestone  County, 
so  she  can  learn  all  about  cooking,  and  sewing, 
and  raising  chickens,  and  honey  and  dairying, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  so  she  can  run  an  up- 
to-date  farm  home." 

"That's  a  splendid  idea — our  country-girls  are 
even  less  enlightened  on  domestic  economy  than 
the  boys  are  on  farming,  as  a  rule." 

"I  want  her  to  have  some  chances  herself." 

"What  else  will  you  do,  Joe?" 

"Why,  I'll  buy  mother  a  new  dress,  then  put 

31 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

the  rest  of  the  money  in  the  bank  at  interest. 
I'll  work  another  year  and  make  some  more. 
Then  I'm  going  to  the  very  best  agricultural 
school  in  the  United  States  and  stay  a  year.  I'll 
have  the  actual  experience  then  and  can  under- 
stand and  appreciate  what  it  teaches." 

"That's  a  pretty  extensive  program.  Any- 
thing else?" 

"Yes,  sir.  I'm  coming  back  here  and  buy 
me  a  ten-acre  place  and  make  the  crops  pay  for 
it.  Then  as  soon  as  I  get  on  my  feet  I  am 
going  to  add  five  or  ten  acres  every  year  until 
I  get  it  the  size  I  want. 

"That's  the  kind  of  talk  I  like  to  hear. 
Farming  offers  just  as  many  and  more  oppor- 
tunities than  business,  if  a  man  will  just  apply 
business  methods  to  it.  It  is  the  most  inde- 
pendent and  happiest  life  in  the  world." 

"Then  every  year  or  so  I  want  to  go  off  to  a 
good  agricultural  school  for  a  month  or  more 
and  do  special  study — keep  up  with  what  is 
going  on — and  I'll  be  able  after  a  while  to  give 
mother  a  good  home  where  she  won't  have  to 
work  herself  to  death  and  can  kind  of  take  it 
easy." 

"You'll  do,"  said  the  merchant,  shaking  hands 
with  him  as  the  wagon  rolled  up  to  receive  the 
oats  and  rye.  "Good -by,  and  you  just  go 
ahead  and  use  your  judgment." 

32 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  fence  was  built  next  day,  with  a  sub- 
stantial lock  upon  the  gate,  and  Joe  carried 
the  key  in  his  pocket. 

With  the  assistance  of  Link  he  sowed  the  rye 
thickly  on  three  acres,  and  oats  on  the  other. 
He  hired  his  father's  team  and  harrow,  agreeing 
to  pay  a  dollar  for  the  use  of  it,  and  harrowed 
the  grain  thoroughly  into  the  finely  pulverized 
soil. 

The  many  spikes,  or  teeth,  of  the  harrow  had 
by  this  time  demolished  every  clod,  and  the 
surface  of  the  field  was  level  and  smooth,  with 
a  slight  slope  to  the  south,  which  insured 
drainage. 

Passers-by  on  the  county  road  began  to  stop 
and  watch  his  operations.  Most  of  the  farmers 
grinned  indulgently  and  predicted  that  nothing 
would  come  of  "all  that  foolishness."  A  few 
of  them  went  to  thinking,  and  without  saying 
anything  about  it  went  home  and  gathered  up 
leaves  and  trash  and  barn-yard  fertilizer,  and 
plowed  an  acre  or  so  deeply,  just  as  a  matter  of 
3  33 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

curiosity,  to  see  what  would  happen.  A  few 
others  sowed  oats  or  rye  just  as  Joe  did. 

The  rye  came  up — a  splendid,  thick  stand  of 
it.  In  a  few  weeks  it  had  spread,  forming  a 
solid  mat  of  luscious  green.  Hungry  hogs 
prowled  squealingly  around  the  hog-proof  fence ; 
hungry  cows  looked  and  longed  and  lowed  dis- 
consolately, for  it  was  near  Christmas-time,  and 
there  was  no  green  pasture  available  for  the 
poor  creatures,  and  dead  grass  is  not  very 
satisfying. 

Jim  Sullivan  stopped  his  team  in  the  road  one 
day  and  gazed  admiringly  in  the  field. 

''Got  a  fine  stand  thar,  Joe!"  he  called. 

" Pretty  good — yes,  sir!" 

"  What  ,'11  you  charge  me  to  let  me  graze  these 
here  horses  in  that  patch  awhile?  They're  pow- 
erful puny.  I  never  made  no  feed  to  speak 
of  last  fall,  an'  if  I  don't  strengthen  'em  up  some 
I'm  afeard  they  won't  pull  through  the  winter." 

Joe  gazed  at  the  scrawny,  weak  animals  and 
felt  sorry  for  them.  He  recalled  the  four  dollars 
Jim  had  paid  for  the  liquor  last  fall,  and  thought 
if  it  had  been  invested  in  oats  the  horses  and  Jim 
would  both  have  been  a  good  deal  better  off. 

"Why,  I  hardly  know,  Mr.  Sullivan—" 

"I  ain't  got  no  money  now,  Joe,  but  I'll  pay 
you  next  fall  when  my  cotton  comes  in."  Joe 
remembered  hearing  Mr.  Somerville  say  Sullivan 

34 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

was  mighty  bad  pay,  that  he  spent  every  cent 
he  could  get  his  hands  on  for  liquor. 

"That  ain't  business,  Mr.  Sullivan.  I  can't 
afford  to  wait  that  long.  Tell  you  what  I  will 
do,  though.  I  saw  that  old  white-faced  sow  of 
yours  with  a  new  litter  of  pigs  about  a  month 
ago.  I'll  pasture  your  horses  here  until  the 
first  of  the  year  for  two  of  those  little  pigs." 

"That's  a  go — I'll  bring  'em  over  and  turn 
the  hosses  in." 

"All  right,  but  you  better  call  me  when  you 
come.     I  keep  that  gate  locked." 

Sullivan  drove  on,  his  ungreased  wagon-wheels 
squeaking  a  dismal  tune,  and  the  shaky  wagon 
rattling  and  jingling  in  all  its  joints  from  being 
left  exposed  and  unsheltered  in  all  sorts  of 
weather. 

Joe  went  to  the  barn  and  got  a  sack.  From 
the  oak  grove  he  managed  to  scrape  up  four 
sackfuls  of  leaves.  These  he  placed  in  a  corner 
of  the  fence.  Then  he  cut  a  pole  about  ten  feet 
long  and  ran  it  catercornered  through  the  wires 
of  the  two  lines  of  fence  about  three  feet  from 
the  ground.  Several  shorter  ones  were  placed 
behind  it  to  the  angle  formed  by  the  fence- 
corner  post. 

With  his  hatchet  he  cut  pine  brush  from  the 
bushes  in  an  old  field,  and  piled  them  on  the  poles 
in  the  fence  corner,  the  stems  all  pointing  to  the 

35 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

front,  until  a  thick  thatch  formed  a  sloping 
roof  which  would  shed  rain.  Then  he  piled  more 
pine  brush  about  the  two  sides  formed  by  the 
converging  wire  fence,  and  climbed  over  and 
surveyed  his  work. 

He  had  made  a  cozy  rain -and -wind -proof 
shelter,  and  he  smiled  as  he  thought  of  how 
those  uncared-for  pigs  of  Sullivan's  would  enjoy 
it.  Across  the  road  was  a  spring  branch  and  an 
abandoned  wash-tub  from  the  house,  with  an 
approach  of  dirt  banked  to  its  edge,  which,  set 
down  and  placed  in  the  field,  formed  a  watering- 
place  for  the  pigs.  Joe  thoughtfully  put  several 
large  stones  in  the  tub  so  that  the  water  was  not 
over  five  inches  deep.  In  case  one  of  the  pigs 
fell  in,  it  would  not  drown. 

Next  morning  Jim  Sullivan  brought  the  pigs, 
lively,  spotted  little  fellows,  but  poor  as  snakes. 
Joe  turned  them  loose  in  the  field,  and  they 
began  eating  the  tender  young  rye  as  if  they 
were  famished.  Jim's  scrawny  horses  were  also 
ravenously  devouring  the  green  stuff.  After 
stipulating  that  Sullivan  was  to  fill  the  water 
tub  each  morning  and  evening  Joe  locked  the 
gate  and  went  up  to  the  house. 

"Mother,  you  and  sister  come  with  me. 
I've  got  something  to  show  you,"  he  said. 

"AH  right.  Come  on,  Annie,"  called  Mrs. 
Weston.     And  they   followed  Joe    down    the 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

road  to  his   "farm,"  as   they  called  the  four 
acres. 

"Oh-h,  brother,  look  at  those  old  horses 
in  your  farm!  Let's  run  them  out!"  cried 
Annie. 

"Hurry,  son!     They  are  just  gobbling  your 
rye." 
I    Joe  laughed. 

"That's  what  I  put  them  in  there  for.  I'm 
renting  it  for  a  pasture  for  a  while." 

"But  they  are  eating  up  the  rye!"  objected 
his  mother. 

'  -  That  won't  hurt  it — really  benefits  it.  Those 
first  shoots  nipped  off  makes  the  roots  throw 
out  twice  as  many  more,  and  makes  each  plant 
stronger  and  thicker." 

"Oh,  and  there  are  two  horrid  little  pigsies 
in  there,  too!  I'll  chase  them  out  for  you." 
said  Annie. 

"I  thought  you  said  that  hog-proof  fencing 
would  keep  them  out?"  inquired  Mrs.  Weston. 

"It  will — and  keep  them  in,  too.  Those  are 
my  pigs,  and  I  put  them  in  there.  I  traded 
pasturage  with  Jim  Sullivan  for  them." 

"They  are  mighty  little — and  poor,"  observed 
his  mother. 

"I  feels  sorry  for  them — just  look  at  their 
poor  little  ribses?"  said  Annie. 

"Which  do  you  like  best,  sis?" 
i  37 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"That  cute  little  one  with  the  white  face 
and  the  curly  tail." 

"All  right;  that's  your  pig,  and  his  name  is 
John  L.  Sullivan,  and  the  other  one  is  named 
Mike  Sullivan." 

"Oh,  thank  you  for  John  L.,  Buddy!  I  just 
love  my  pig  now!" 

"The  other  one  belongs  to  you,  mother." 

"Why,  I'm  obliged  to  you,  son,  but  I  hardly 
know  what  to  do  with  it — we  have  no  pen,  you 
know." 

"  You;  and  Annie  just  save  the  kitchen  scraps 
for  them.  Ill  feed  them  on  this  rye  and  oats 
awhile,  and  that  will  give  them  a  good  start. 
Then  I'll  build  a  pen  nearer  the  house.  If  we 
keep  them  growing  right,  each  one  ought  to 
weigh  three  hundred  pounds  by  next  fall." 

"But,  son,  we  couldn't  use  all  that  meat — " 

"No'm;  I  know  that,  and  I  didn't  mean  for 
us  to  eat  them.  I  wanted  you  to  have  something 
for  your  very  own — you  and  Annie.  Those  hogs 
will  bring  fifteen  dollars  apiece  or  maybe  more 
next  fall — I  want  you  and  sister  to  take  the 
money,  every  cent  of  it,  and  buy  you  some  new 
dresses  and  things." 

Tears  welled  up  into  his  mother's  eyes.  It 
had  been  a  long  time  since  she  had  bought  a  new 
dress.  Her  garments  were  really  so  shabby  and 
rusty  that  she  would  not  go  to  church,  and  some 

38 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

unkind  little  girls  had  made  fun  of  Annie  at 
Sunday  -  school  not  long  since,  which  sent  her 
home,  her  little  heart  sorely  hurting.  She 
danced  about  in  glee. 

"Oh,  I'm  going  to  have  a  velvet  cap  with  a 
red  feather  in  it,  and  a  red-and-black  worsted 
dress,  and  a  pair  of  new  shoes,  and  some  stock- 
ings that  ain't  patched!"  she  cried,  hugging  her 
brother. 

"It's  mighty  good  of  you,  son,  to  think  of 
your  mother  that  way,"  said  Mrs.  Weston. 

"It  isn't  half  of  what  I  am  going  to  do  when 
I  get  a  start,"  answered  Joe,  stoutly. 

"Son,  it  isn't  so  much  what  you  do,  but  it  is 
the  fact  that  you  thought  of  your  mother  and 
sister  and  wanted  to  help  them  that  makes  me 
happy,"  smiled  his  mother. 

"Well,  I  just  saw  a  chance  to  pick  up  some- 
thing that  would  give  you  and  sis  something 
all  your  very  own.  It — it  gives  a  person  a  heap 
more  interest  in  everything  to  own  something, 
don't  it?" 

"Indeed  it  does,  Joe." 

John  L.  and  Mike,  now  filled  to  repletion, 
sought  the  shelter  Joe  had  constructed  for  them, 
and  snuggled  among  the  dry  leaves  with  many 
contented  grunts. 

"Ain't  you  going  to  feed  'em,  Buddy?" 

"Not  now — just  a  few  scraps  from  the  house 

39 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

and  maybe  a  nubbin  of  corn  a  day  for  variety. 
This  rye  is  about  all  they  need." 

"Why — that  won't  fatten  them,"  said  Mrs. 
Weston. 

"No'm;  but  that  government  bulletin  says 
it's  a  waste  of  feed  to  try  to  fatten  hogs  under 
eight  months  old  if  they  are  to  be  kept  until  they 
are  a  year  old.  All  we  want  to  do  is  to  give 
them  enough  to  keep  them  healthy  and  growing 
fast — and  that  green  feed  will  do  it.  It  will 
build  up  a  good  strong  frame  to  hang  all  that  fat 
on  during  the  last  three  months." 

''Pigs  is  dirty  beasts,"  announced  Annie,  as  if 
she  had  discovered  something  new. 

"Because  the  people  that  own  them  put  them 
in  nasty,  little,  muddy  pens,  keep  pouring  swill 
and  slops  in  there,  and  never  give  it  a  chance  to 
dry  out.     Hogs  don't  like  filth." 

"And  they  wallows  in  mudholes!"  argued 
Annie. 

"They  do  that  to  kill  the  flies  and  insects  that 
bother  them,  and  to  keep  cool  in  summer.  Mud 
isn't  filthy.  Give  a  hog  a  good  range  for  pasture 
and  clean  water  to  drink,  and  he  is  clean  as  a 
cow." 

Annie  was  not  convinced. 

"They  eats  nasty  slops,"  she  announced, 
crushingly. 

"If  the  slops  are  nasty  it's  the  fault  of  the 

40 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

people  that  give  them  to  the  hogs.  Pigs  natu- 
rally graze  like  cows  and  horses,  and  would 
rather  eat  nice  green  grass  or  grain  than  slops 
any  time,"  said  Joe. 

"I  never  knew  that  before/ '  remarked  his 
mother,  "but  come  to  think  of  it,  they  always 
do  seem  to  be  eating  something  off  the  ground." 

"It's  grass,  and  weeds,  and  roots,  and  such 
stuff.  And  they  don't  mind  a  nice  fat  cricket 
or  a  grasshopper,  either,"  said  Joe. 

As  the  three  strolled  back  to  the  house  Mrs. 
Weston  looked  over  in  the  field  behind  the  barn. 
There  was  Mr.  Weston  with  the  two -horse 
turning-plow  breaking  about  five  acres  of  land 
as  deeply  as  he  could  sink  the  plow. 

"Well,  I  never!"  she  exclaimed.  "This  is  the 
first  time  I  ever  heard  of  your  father  breaking 
any  land  before  March.  Joe,  I  wonder  what 
put  him  in  that  notion?" 

"He  seen  Buddy  doing  it,"  announced  Annie, 
with  an  air  of  conviction.  His  mother  and  sister 
continued  toward  the  house,  and  Joe  went  to 
where  his  father  was  steadily  plowing. 

"What  you  going  to  plant,  daddy?"  he  asked. 
Mr.  Weston  grinned  a  bit  sheepishly. 

"I  ain't  never  thought  about  plantin'  oats  till 
I  seen  you  do  it,  and  I  just  figgered  I  could  foller 
the  oats  with  late  corn,  an'  maybe  some  pea- vine 
hay  for  these  critters,  and  make  a  double  crop 

4* 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

on  the  land.  It's  pretty  late  to  be  plantin' 
oats,  though,  ain't  it?  You  don't  s'pose  it's  too 
late,  do  you?" 

It  was  the  first  time  his  father  had  ever  recog- 
nized him  as  knowing  anything  at  all  about 
farming,  and  to  be  asked  as  an  authority  com- 
pensated for  a  whole  lot  of  things. 

"No,  sir;  they'll  'make'  all  right.  If  I  were 
you  I'd  cross-break  this  land,  and  I'll  harrow  it 
for  you  to-morrow." 

"Exactly  what  I  was  goin'  to  do,"  said  his 
father. 

"And,  daddy,  if  you  want  to,  you  can  turn 
those  horses  in  on  my  rye  nights  when  Sullivan's 
horses  are  off.  I  think  some  green  stuff  would 
help  them  a  whole  lot." 

"Now  that's  mighty  clever,  son — an'  you 
needn't  pay  for  the  use  of  the  wagon  to  haul  that 
fertilizer  in,  nor  for  the  use  of  the  harrow  and 
horse." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  I'm  going  up  now  and  see 
how  much  seed-oats  I  have  left — I  think  there 
is  a  bushel  and  a  half.  You  may  have  'em — it 
will  save  you  just  that  much." 

His  father's  eyes  followed  him  up  the  hill 
toward  the  house.  Joe  felt  nearer  to  his  father 
than  he  could  ever  recall  before — more  on  an 
equality  as  a  comrade  with  him. 

"Giddap,  Baldy!"  called  Tom  Weston  to  the 

42 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

lazy  one  of  his  team.  "Baldy,  I  thought  that 
boy  was  actin'  the  fool  about  these  leaves  an' 
stuff  an'  this  here  deep  plowin'.  It  ain't  him, 
Baldy;  it's  me.  Giddap — by  granny,  I  got  to 
be  makin'  up  for  a  lot  of  time  I've  lost  by  bein' 
pig-headed." 

That  night  Joe  got  down  his  account-book. 
One  page  he  had  headed  "Expense,"  and  there 
he  carefully  entered  every  cent  paid  out  for 
posts,  wire,  labor,  seed.  On  the  opposite  side 
he  wrote  the  heading  "  Income,"  for  the  first 
results  of  his  farming  operations  that  had 
come  in  the  shape  of  two  scrawny  little 
pigs. 

"  Received  from  J.  Sullivan  two  spotted  pigs, 
six  weeks  old;  value,  two  dollars  each — total, 
four  dollars,"  he  entered.  On  another  page  he 
headed,  "J.  Weston  in  acct.  with  Weston  & 
Somerville."  He  had  taken  the  pigs  in  for  the 
firm,  but  presented  both  to  his  mother  and 
sister. 

"To  one  of  the  Sullivan  pigs,"  he  wrote  under 
his  individual  account,  then  paused.  He  started 
to  charge  the  pig  at  the  two-dollar  value,  but 
at  once  put  the  thought  from  him. 

"One  of  those  pigs  is  mine;  the  other  is  Mr. 
Somerville' s.  If  I  take  his  pig  and  make  a 
present  of  it  I  should  settle  with  Mr.  Somerville 
at  what  the  pig  would  be  worth  when  he  and 

43 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

I  settle  in  the  fall.  I'll  pay  for  it  out  of  my  share 
of  the  crop,"  he  said  to  himself.  Then  he  picked 
up  the  pen. 

"To  one  of  the   Sullivan   pigs,  fifteen  dol- 
lars/ '  he  wrote. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JOE  could  handle  a  small  single-horse  plow 
himself,  but  a  two-horse  turning-plow  was 
a  bit  beyond  his  strength. 

He  made  a  trade  with  his  father,  therefore, 
who  agreed  to  turn  the  rye  under  for  three 
dollars  on  the  three  acres.  Bess  and  Baldy,  the 
horses,  had  been  greatly  improved  by  grazing 
upon  the  strength-giving  green  food,  and  looked 
almost  like  different  animals. 

The  third  week  in  January  was  bright  and 
dry,  so  after  the  rye  had  been  turned  under 
Joe  borrowed  the  harrow  and  one  horse  and 
smoothed  the  three  acres  again  himself,  thus 
making  it  fine  and  level  and  covering  some  of 
the  rye  that  showed  in  the  furrows  left  by  the 
plow.  The  acre  of  oats  was  not  disturbed,  and 
John  L.  and  Mike,  the  Sullivan  pigs,  were  left 
in  the  field  to  graze  upon  it. 

Saturday  morning  Mr.  Weston  hitched  up  the 
wagon  to  go  to  town,  and  Joe  went  with  him. 

"Well,  partner,  how's  everything  coming 
along?' '  inquired  Mr.  Somerville,  shaking  hands 
cordially, 

45 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"All  right,  sir.  Got  the  ground  in  fine  shape 
now,  and  a  mighty  pretty  stand  of  oats." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Joe  as  a  book  farmer 
now,  Tom?"  inquired  Mr.  Somerville,  with  a 
sly  wink.  Mr.  Weston  looked  embarrassed  for 
a  moment. 

"Think  enough  of  him  to  f oiler  him  some," 
he  laughed.  "I've  put  in  four  acres  of  oats  and 
one  of  rye  I'd  never  'a'  thought  of  plantin'  until 
I  seen  him  do  it.  Then  I've  plowed  deep  five 
acres  also  an'  bedded  it  up  for  corn  an'  cotton, 
only  I  ain't  put  no  leaves  in  it  or  fertilizer.  I 
want  to  see  if  there's  anything  to  all  this." 

"Now  that's  the  talk.     If  there  is,  you  are 
considerably    ahead,    and    if    there    isn't    you 
haven't  lost  anything  but  some  time." 
"  "That's  the  way  I  figgered  it." 

"Joe,  I'm  about  ready  to  order  the  cotton- 
seed and  the  seed-corn,"  said  Mr.  Somerville. 

"Now,  that's  another  thing,"  said  Tom  Wes- 
ton; "I  wanted  to  see  if  you'd  order  the  same 
sort  for  me  you  'n'  Joe  plant.  'Pears  to  me  the 
corn  we  raise  around  here  oughter  have  two 
ears  on  hit  'stid  of  one.  The  stalk's  there,  an' 
it  ain't  no  more  trouble  to  have  another  ear  on 
hit  an'  get  twicet  as  much  corn?"  Joe  and  Mr. 
Somerville  exchanged  brief  smiles. 

"Why,  Tom,  you  are  getting  to  be  a  sort  of 
book  farmer  yourself!" 

46 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"That  ain't  no  book  farmin';  that's  just 
hoss-sense." 

"That  is  all  book  farming  is,  just  the  latest 
and  newest  and  most  reliable  common  sense, 
only  it  is  just  more  common  sense  than  most 
of  us  have  thought  of,  that's  all." 

"What  cotton  have  you  selected,  Mr.  Somer- 
ville?"  asked  Joe. 

"A  sort  the  government  has  tested  on  ten 
experiment  farms  in  this  latitude  for  the  last 
four  years.  It  averages  three  weeks  ahead  of 
anything  we  have,  and  the  staple,  or  fiber,  of  the 
cotton  is  over  an  inch  long.  It  is  said  to  be  a 
very  heavy  bearer  also.  It  ought  to  bring  a 
fine  price  if  kept  free  of  dirt  and  trash  and  stain." 

"All  right,  sir;  that's  the  kind  we  want." 

"Jes'  order  me  enough  of  that,  too,  so's  I 
can  plant  three  acres,  will  you?"  asked  Tom 
Weston. 

"Glad  to  do  it,  Tom.  The  price  is  a  bit 
steep,  though." 

"Don't  care  what  the  price  is.  If  it  makes 
cotton  like  you  say  it  does  I  can  well  afford  to 
buy  it,  and  I'll  sell  the  seed  myself  next  fall  to 
folks  around  here.  It  beats  any  cotton  ever 
growed  around  this  country." 

"Very  well;  I'll  order  enough  for  you.  And, 
Joe,  I've  got  a  corn  that  will  make  two  ears  to 
the  stalk  certain,  the  grower  says." 

47 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"I'm  going  to  breed  me  a  three  and  four  ear 
variety,' '  said  Joe. 

1 1  You're  agoin'  to  do  what?"  inquired  his  father, 
sarcastically. 

"Breed  a  three  and  four  ear  variety."  Torn 
Weston  laughed. 

"Folks  'breed'  cattle  an'  sich,  but  I  never 
heered  nothin'  of  'breedin'  corn,"  he  said. 

"How  do  you  suppose  this  two-ear  variety  we 
are  going  to  plant  got  started,  then,  Tom?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Somerville. 

"Why — why — er — it  is — er — it's  jest  that  sort 
of  corn,"  he  floundered. 

"Certainly  it  is,  but  why  did  it  happen  to 
be  that  sort?" 

"Well,  I'm  blamed  if  I  know,  to  tell  the  truth 
about  it." 

"If  you'd  read  some  of  Joe's  books  you'd  find 
out  a  lot  of  things  you  don't  know.  Now  tell 
your  dad,  Joe,  how  you  are  going  to  'breed'  a 
three-ear  corn." 

Joe  was  embarrassed,  but  plunged  bravely  in. 

"  It  takes  several  years  to  do  it,  daddy.  Now, 
this  seed-corn  we  are  getting  is  'fixed'  at  two 
ears  to  the  stalk — we  can  depend  on  that  much. 
If  we  give  it  all  the  plant-food  it  can  take,  some 
of  it  is  going  to  show  three  ears,  but  the  third 
ears  are  not  going  to  be  much  more  than  nub- 
bins." 

48 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Well,  I  don't  see  no  advantage  in  them 
nubbins." 

"Yes,  sir;  nubbins  are  good  to  feed  hogs  on. 
But  if  we  go  through  that  field  and  pick  out  the 
best  stalks  with  three  ears  on  them,  and  then 
pick  the  most  perfect  ears  from  the  lot,  and 
plant  the  seed  from  them  next  year,  the  nubbins 
will  be  bigger,  and  more  of  them  on  an  aver- 
age, and  maybe  some  of  the  stalks  will  show — 
show — " 

"Rudimentary  ears,"  said  Mr.  Somerville. 

"Thanks;  I  couldn't  remember  it,  but  it 
means  just  the  beginning  of  an  ear — not  devel- 
oped. Then  if  the  best  of  those  stalks  is  saved 
for  seed,  next  year  the  rudimentary  ears  will 
be  larger."^ 

"I  begin  to  sort  of  catch  on  now,"  said  Tom 
Weston. 

"Each  year  the  selected  seed,  the  best  of  the 
last  year's  crop,  will  in  time  produce  a  perfect 
third  ear,  and  several  years  of  this  work  will 
'fix'  the  habit  of  the  corn  so  that  every  stalk 
can  be  depended  on  to  bring  three  ears.  Then 
a  person  can  keep  on." 

"Well,  if  that  ain't  the  plumb  limit!" 

"No,  sir;  not  the  limit.  I'm  going  to  have  a 
four-ear  corn  before  I  quit." 

"You  reckon  all  that  is  really  true?"  asked 
Tom  Weston. 

4  49 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Of  course  it  is,  Tom.  It  has  been  proved 
too  many  times  to  doubt  it ;  it  is  just  a  question 
of  care  and  patience." 

"Well,  well,  well!  Why,  if  Joe  gets  that  corn 
up  to  four  ears  he's  got  a  pretty  good  thing, 
ain't  he?" 

"Got  a  fortune.  It  would  sell  for  five  dollars 
a  bushel  for  seed." 

"Whew!" 

"And  a  four-ear  corn  ought  to  make  two  hun- 
dred bushels  to  the  acre  without  a  bit  of  trouble, 
and  two  hundred  bushels  at  five  dollars  is  a 
thousand  dollars  an  acre,  isn't  it,  dad?"  His 
father  gazed  at  him  with  unwonted  respect. 

"Think  I'll  borry  some  of  them  books  of 
yourn  and  do  some  readin'  myself,"  said  Tom; 
"but  I  never  had  no  chance  when  I  was  a  chap, 
an*  readin'  is  powerful  slow  work  fer  me.  I've 
done  mighty  little  of  it,  too." 

"You  can't  start  any  sooner,  Tom,"  said  the 
merchant. 

"That's  right;  I  just  learned  that  much." 

"I  came  in  to  talk  to  you  about  that  fourth 
acre,  Mr.  Somerville,"  said  Joe. 

"Our  yam-potato  one?" 

''Yes,  sir;  we  ought  to  raise  more  than  pota- 
toes on  it." 

"Can  we?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

So 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Then  it's  our  duty  to  do  it.  We  ought  to 
do  it.-" 

"I  thought  so,  but  you're  my  partner,  and  I 
thought  you  ought  to  have  a  say  about  it." 

"Well,  I  say  plant  it,  but  I  don't  know  what 
to  suggest — early  corn?" 

"No,  sir;  couldn't  get  that  off  in  time.  I  was 
thinking  of  putting  in  a  crop  of  extra  early  Eng- 
lish pease,  and  snap-beans  and  radishes,  and  get 
them  off  in  time  to  plant  the  potatoes;  we  don't 
have  to  plant  them  until  along  in  June." 

"That  ain't  farmin';  that's  truck-growin'," 
said  Mr.  Weston. 

"Don't  care  what  you  call  it,  it's  making 
money  out  of  the  ground,"  asserted  Joe. 

"Seems  to  be  a  pretty  good  idea  to  me, 
except  we  can't  sell  all  that  stuff  around 
here." 

"Nearly  everybody  in  Brierfield's  got  gardens, 
and  wouldn't  pay  fancy  prices  for  garden  sass 
nohow,"  said  Joe's  father. 

"I  know  that,  daddy,  but  I'm  going  to  let 
Mr.  Somerville  do  the  selling.  If  he'll  get  me 
the  right  sort  of  crates  and  boxes  to  pack  those 
things  in  he  can  express  them  to  Chicago  and 
St.  Louis  and  Cincinnati  and  come  right  in 
behind  the  Florida  truck,  and  we  ought  to  get 
good  prices." 

"I'll  order  the  crates  and  boxes  and  get  in 

S1 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

correspondence  with  some  good  produce  houses 
in  those  cities.' ' 

"All  right,  sir — and  please  save  the  sugar 
barrels  from  the  store  here." 

"What  for?" 

"Pack  radishes  in  'em.  Take  an  auger  and 
bore  holes  for  ventilation,  and  fill  the  barrels 
with  bunches  of  radishes  and  some  ice  mixed  in, 
and  then  tack  cloth  over  the  top." 

"Now,  who  told  you  that?" 

"Old  Mr.  Schneider.  He  stopped  at  my  farm 
one  day.  He  used  to  be  a  truck-farmer  before 
he  got  too  old.  He  suggested  the  pease  and 
things." 

"Joe,  one  thing  about  being  educated  is  to 
enable  you  to  see  the  worth  of  a  suggestion. 
Come  to  think  about  it,  I  believe  there  is  good 
money  in  early  garden-truck,  and  we'll  try  it 
out  and  see.     What  seed  do  you  want?" 

"Bushel  and  a  half  of  the  Alaska  pea — that's 
about  the  earliest  sort,  that's  a  standard,  so 
Mr.  Schneider  says,  and  it  don't  have  to  be 
stuck  with  brush  for  the  vines  to  run  on;  also 
a  bushel  of  the  Valentine  stringless  green-pod 
snap-beans,  and  two  quarts  of  the  white-tipped 
French  breakfast  radish." 

"Very  well,  I  will  order  to-night." 

Getting  a  new  hoe,  rake,  ball  of  carpenter's 
twine,  and  a  sack  of  commercial  fertilizer  adapted 

52 


WHAT'S   YER    HURRY.    TOM?' 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

to  vegetables,  Joe  loaded  them  in  his  father's 
wagon.  Just  as  Mr.  Weston  climbed  in  Jim 
Sullivan  rode  up  and  hitched  his  horse  to  the 
Somerville  Mercantile  Company  rack. 

"What's  yer  hurry,  Tom?" 

"Well,  I've  got  some  things  to  'tend  to  at 
home — " 

"Aw,  wait  awhile.  I've  got  a  gallon  of  bug- 
juice — th'  real  old  genoowine  red-eye — a-comin' 
on  th'  noon  train — " 

"Much  obliged,  Jim,  but—" 

"We  can  drown  our  sorrer  some,  Tom — " 

1 '  I  ain't  a-f eelin'  sorrerf ul  to-day,  Jim ;  besides, 
I  promised  the  missus  I'd  fix  a  pig-lot  for  her." 
.  "Say,  hoi'  on,  Tom,  an'  git  a  couple  of  snorts 
of  that  booze." 

"Thankee,  Jim,  but  to  be  plumb  plain  about 
it,  by  gosh,  I've  quit.  I've  wasted  too  much 
time  an'  money  foolin'  with  it.  That's  one  rea- 
son I'm  poor  as  a  snake  now  and  ain't  got 
nothin'.  So  I  jes'  allowed  I'd  try  another  tack. 
Good-by." 

The  Weston  wagon  rattled  on  down  the  street, 
leaving  Jim  Sullivan  staring  in  wide-eyed  amaze- 
ment at  the  cloud  of  dust  in  the  wake  of  his 
old  crony  of  other  days. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  PRIL  fifteenth  the  last  of  the  pease  and  rad- 
l\  ishes  were  shipped.  Two  thousand  bunches 
of  radishes  at  three  cents  a  bunch  brought  sixty 
dollars,  less  eleven  dollars  expense  for  picking, 
bunching,  washing,  packing,  and  commission  to 
tha,  dealers. 

.Sixty  bushels  of  English  pease  at  two  dollars  a 
bushel  brought  one  hundred  and  twenty  dollars, 
with  expense  for  seed,  help,  picking,  etc.,  includ- 
ing commissions  of  thirty-eight  dollars.  Total 
profit  thus  far,  with  the  snap-beans  yet  to  hear 
from,  one  hundred  and  thirty-one  dollars. 

On  the  first,  Mr.  Somerville  had  brought  three 
disinterested  men  from  town,  who  measured  the 
corn  acre  exactly,  put  down  the  stakes,  and  told 
Joe  to  "go  ahead/ '  He  had  two  weeks  pre- 
viously measured  the  acre  himself,  opened  the 
furrows  for  the  corn,  and  put  some  commercial 
fertilizer  in  so  that  the  young  corn  could  get 
a  sturdy,  vigorous  start.  He  also  planted  a  bit 
late,  so  there  would  be  no  danger  of  cold  nights 
chilling  the  corn  and  giving  it  a  backset.  The 
fertilizer  in  two  weeks*  time  was  largely  absorbed 

54 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

into  the  ground,  and  so  there  was  no  danger  of 
its  concentrated  strength  burning  the  roots  of 
the  tender  plants,  yet  the  necessary  elements 
were  there  ready  for  the  hungry  baby  rootlets. 

The  measurements  of  the  committee  were  ex- 
actly the  same  as  Joe  had  made,  so  he  com- 
menced dropping  the  seed-corn,  four  grains 
every  three  feet,  and  the  rows  three  feet  apart. 
The  committee  lounged  under  the  oaks  across 
the  road.  * 

When  the  corn  had  been  dropped  in  the  fur- 
rows, Joe  had  old  Baldy  ready  hitched  to  a  light 
plow,  and  ran  a  shallow  furrow  next  to  the  seed- 
furrow.  This  threw  the  dirt  over  the  corn  and 
covered  it  properly. 

Then  the  committee  adjourned  with  him  to 
the  house  and  certified  upon  the  blank  furnished 
by  the  Corn  Club  contestants  for  the  report 
and  record  that  they  had  seen  Joseph  Weston 
plant  his  acre  of  corn  and  cover  it  himself.  They 
signed  it,  Joe  signed  it,  and  the  fight  was  on. 

From  thenceforward,  under  the  rules  of  the 
contest,  no  other  hand  than  his  own  might 
touch  that  corn  until  it  was  safely  gathered  and 
housed.  The  rules  permitted  him  to  employ  help 
in  preparing  the  ground,  but  every  cent  paid 
out  had  to  be  entered  on  the  record-sheet,  the 
prize  being  not  only  for  the  boy  who  made  the 
greatest  crop  but  at  the  least  cost. 

55 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Thus  far  he  had  spent  on  the  corn  acre:  for 
leaves,  forty  cents;  having  hired  Abe  Lincoln 
for  two  days  on  that  work,  but  the  other  day 
was  charged  to  the  cotton,  which  was  not  a 
contest  crop;  work  scraping  fertilizer  from  the 
lot,  forty  cents.  His  father  did  not  charge  him 
for  the  fertilizer,  offsetting  the  grazing  of  the 
horses  on  the  rye  and  some  work  Joe  did  against 
it.  The  breaking  of  the  acre  cost  two  dollars; 
seed-rye,  three  dollars;  turning  it  under,  one 
dollar;  one  hundred  pounds  of  commercial  fer- 
tilizer, one  dollar  and  fifty  cents;  seed-corn,  a 
dollar;  total,  nine  dollars  and  thirty  cents. 

As  the  rest  of  the  four  acres  was  not  in  com- 
petition, Joe  hired  Abe  Lincoln  whenever  he 
needed  him,  which  was  constantly,  now.  Abe 
had  got  interested. 

"You  know,  Mister  Joe,"  said  Abe  Lincoln 
one  day,  "whut's  de  matter  wid  us  niggers  is, 
we  don'  know  nothin',  en  ef  we  does  know  we's 
too  lazy  to  do  nuffin'  wid  hit." 

"  Lots  of  white  folks  in  the  same  fix,"  answered 
Joe. 

"Yasser,  I  knows  dat — but  I  been  figgerin' 
on  all  dis  yer  doin's,  an'  I  made  de  clnTen  at 
home  help  me  tote  leaves  an*  trash,  an'  fertilizer 
from  de  stable  an'  cow-lot,  en'  I  got  me  er  acre 
too.  I  specs  ter  have  somethin,  some  er  dese 
days  merse'f." 

56 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"That's  exactly  what  I  am  going  to  do,  Link, 
and  if  I  can  help  you  in  any  way — " 

"Oh,  you  helps  me  by  hirin'  me.  I  goes  home 
an*  does  whut  you  does." 

"What  are  you  going  to  plant  on  your  acre, 
Link?" 

"Well,  suh,  Fs  a  plumb  fool  erbout  sweet- 
'taters,  dese  yer  sweet,  honeylike  yaller  ones 
dat  jes'  melts  in  yo'  mouf  w'en  dey's  cooked  wid 
er  nice  fat  possum,  an*  plenty  er  dat  rich  gravy 
ter  sop  'em  in.  Man,  Fs  gwin  ter  try  ter  eat 
up  dat  whole  acre  er  'taters  merse'f !" 

"You'll  have  quite  a  job.  You  ought  to 
follow  the  potatoes  with  turnips  this  fall." 

"Yasser,  I  is — en'  er  good  patch  er  collards, 
too.  Den  next  year  dat  groun'  gwine  ter  make 
a  bale  er  cotton  sho' !" 

The  acre  of  cotton  was  planted  a  day  or  so 
after  the  corn;  then  began  the  rush  to  get  the 
snap-beans  to  market.  Thirty  bushels  at  one 
dollar  and  forty  cents,  with  an  expense  of  twelve 
dollars  for  picking,  crating,  hauling,  and  com- 
missions, left  a  profit  of  thirty  dollars.  This 
added  to  the  amount  received  brought  the  total 
on  the  sweet-potato  acre  up  to  one  hundred  and 
sixty-one  dollars,  and  the  commission  merchant 
wrote  to  Mr.  Somerville  desiring  to  handle  the 
next  year's  crop,  saying  that  he  had  never  had  a 
nicer,  fresher,  or  more  desirable  lot  of  vegetables. 

,57, 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Joe  exhibited  the  bank-book  to  his  father  with 
a  good  deal  of  pride. 

"Well,  by  gum,  Joe,  half  of  that's  yourn, 
ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I've  cleared  eighty  dollars  and 
fifty  cents  as  my  part  of  that  acre,  and  we  will 
get  a  good  crop  of  potatoes  off  it,  too." 

"  Why,  my  gracious,  you've  made  more  money 
off  that  acre  of  truck  than  an  acre  of  cotton 
brings  around  here — yes,  more'n  three  times  as 
much." 

The  pea  vines  were  pulled  up,  the  remains 
of  the  radishes  and  the  bean  vines  were  fed  to 
the  pigs,  which  were  thriving  wonderfully  in  a 
large  dry  pen,  built  by  Mr.  Weston. 

The  vegetable  rows  were  then  plowed  up  and 
bedded  into  rows  five  feet  apart.  Joe  had  bought 
a  bushel  of  the  rich  yellow  yams — "pumpkin 
yams"  they  were  called — earlier  in  the  season 
and  bedded  them  in  a  dry,  warm  place  to  sprout. 
He  took  the  sprouts  off  as  they  showed  above 
the  ground  and  got  three  rows. 

In  a  few  weeks  they  commenced  to  make 
vines  and  cover  the  spaces  between  the  rows. 
One  cloudy  day  when  it  looked  like  rain,  Joe 
and  Link  began  to  cut  the  vines  into  two-foot 
lengths;  then,  placing  the  ends  together,  the 
cuttings  were  doubled  into  the  ground  about 
six  inches  deep,  and  the  remainder  of  the  acre 

58 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

was  planted.  A  gentle  rain  fell  all  that  night, 
and  in  a  few  days  roots  sprang  from  every  leaf 
joint  beneath  the  soil,  and  the  acre  was  planted 
without  further  cost  for  seed. 

About  May  ioth  Joe  went  over  his  corn  with 
a  hoe  and  pulled  from  each  hill  the  two  weakest 
stalks.  A  hard  rain  packed  the  soil  a  few  days 
later  and  necessitated  another  working  to  break 
the  crust. 

Then  Joe  and  Link  had  to  "chop  out"  the 
cotton.  The  seed  was  planted  thickly  to  insure 
a  "  stand,"  and  the  object  of  the  chopping  out 
was  to  remove  the  surplus  plants,  leaving  one 
about  every  two  feet  in  the  row. 

As  soon  as  this  was  done  the  oats  were  ready 
to  cut,  and  the  two  boys  tackled  the  job  with 
hand-sickles,  twisting  a  few  of  the  oat-stalks 
about  each  bundle  and  turning  the  ends  under 
so  as  to  tie  them.  Five  hundred  and  fifty 
bundles  of  oats  at  four  cents  a  bundle  brought 
twenty-two  dollars  more.  Then  Joe  turned  the 
oat -stubble  under  and  bedded  the  acre  for 
Mexican  June  corn. 

He  put  Link  to  work  hoeing  the  cotton  and 
killing  the  luxuriantly  growing  crab-grass,  which 
was  making  faster  progress  than  the  crop.  His 
prize  acre  of  corn  was  getting  grassy  also,  and 
the  corn  was  about  waist-high.  It  was  time  for 
more  fertilizer.     He  scattered  a  generous  handful 

59 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

about  each  hill,  then,  with  a  light  plow  run  twice 
down  the  middle  of  each  row,  threw  the  loose 
dirt  toward  the  stalks  and  covered  the  fertilizer. 
A  good  rain  fell  next  day,  and  one  could  almost 
see  that  corn  grow. 

Two  days  later,  when  the  ground  was  dry 
enough,  Joe  ran  a  furrow  through  the  "beds" 
he  had  thrown  up  where  the  oats  were,  and 
planted  the  Mexican  June  corn,  fertilizing  with 
one  hundred  pounds  of  the  commercial  stimulant 
placed  in  the  rows.  As  soon  as  this  was  done 
the  potatoes  needed  a  plowing,  and  got  it.  Then 
an  application  of  fertilizer  to  the  cotton,  and  a 
plowing  as  he  had  given  the  corn. 

The  days  were  busy  ones  for  Joe  and  his  father. 
Both  were  out  of  bed  by  daylight,  to  meet  only 
at  meal -times  and  at  night.  Somehow,  Mr. 
Weston  seemed  to  have  taken  a  new  lease  on 
life  and  a  better  grip  on  everything.  He  had 
plowed  the  garden,  fixed  the  fences,  and  for  the 
first  time  since  Joe  could  remember  the  family 
had  an  abundance  of  all  sorts  of  vegetables. 

Now  that  the  rough  work  of  planting  the  gar- 
den was  over,  Mrs.  Weston  claimed  that  and 
the  chickens  and  two  pigs  and  the  cow  as  her 
special  province,  assisted  by  Annie.  The  out- 
of-doors  exercise  was  good  for  both  of  them,  and 
they  looked  healthier  and  happier  than  Joe  had 
ever  seen  them  before. 

60 


JOE,   THEjBOOK    FARMER 

The  meals  used  to  be  silent,  gloomy  occasions 
where  each  one  finished  and  left  as  soon  as 
possible;  now  when  the  family  met  it  was  a 
joyous  occasion,  and  each  one  seemed  to  have 
something  amusing  and  cheerful  to  tell. 

"Son,  aren't  you  going  to  take  a  rest  day 
after  to-morrow  ?"  asked  his  mother,  one  day 
in  mid- June. 

"Well,  I  could — everything  is  getting  along 
nicely  and  won't  need  another  working  until 
next  week.     What's  up?" 

"It's  your  birthday,  and  your  father  and  I 
and  Annie  thought  we'd  make  a  holiday  of  it." 

"I  declare,  I  have  been  so  busy  I  forgot  it!" 
laughed  Joe. 

"I  didn't,"  said  his  mother. 

The  subject  was  dropped,  but  on  that  morning 
Joe  was  allowed  to  sleep  until  eight  o'clock,  a 
most  unusual  thing  for  him.  Then  the  wagon 
was  ready,  and  the  whole  family  climbed  in  for 
a  day  at  Magnolia  Dell,  some  five  miles  dis- 
tant. 

There  was  a  beautiful,  large  spring  at  the  Dell, 
which  fed  a  small,  clear  lake,  famous  for  its 
fish.  Poles  were  provided,  crickets  caught  for 
bait,  and  soon  the  party  was  busy  landing  sun- 
perch,  blue  bream,  and  rock-bass.  A  frying-pan 
had  been  brought  along,  with  salt,  meal,  and 
lard.    At  dinner-time  the  abundance  of  fish  was 

61 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

prepared  for  cooking.  Joe  got  three  good-sized 
stones  to  set  the  frying-pan  on  and  built  a  fire. 

When  the  fat  was  almost  boiling,  the  fish 
were  rolled  in  the  meal,  salted,  and  dropped  in. 
In  a  few  minutes  each  one  was  cooked  to  a 
crisp,  golden  brown. 

The  dinner  in  the  basket  Mrs.  Weston  had 
provided  was  a  fine  one  to  supplement  the  fish. 
A  pitcher  of  lemonade  made  from  the  icy  water  of 
the  spring  and  flavored  with  sprigs  of  mint  from 
its  edges  completed  the  repast,  partaken  of  with 
keen  appetites  whetted  by  the  zest  of  novelty. 

After  lounging  about  on  the  mossy  carpet 
beneath  the  great  magnolia  -  trees  in  pleasant 
laziness,  both  Joe  and  his  father  fell  asleep,  each 
with  a  bundle  of  fragrant  fern  for  a  pillow. 
While  they  slept  Mrs.  Weston  and  Annie  washed 
the  dinner  things,  packed  them  in  the  wagon, 
and  caught  a  pretty  good  string  of  perch  for 
the  morning's  breakfast.  It  was  nearly  six 
o'clock  when  the  tired  men-folks  wakened  from 
their  nap. 

"  Come  on,  Joe,  let's  have  a  swim;  then  we've 
got  to  be  hitching  up  to  go  home,"  said  his 
father. 

Down  at  the  lower  end  of  the  lake  was  a 
famous  swimming-hole,  with  firm,  sandy  bottom 
and  a  spring-board  to  dive  from.  Both  went  into 
the  water  at  once,  and  after  a  good  swim  and 

6a 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

a  brisk  rub-down  each  felt  as  if  he  was  treading 
on  air  when  he  walked. 

Dusk  had  fallen  over  the  land  when  they 
got  out  of  the  deep  shadows  of  the  woods  about 
the  lake.  In  the  mysterious  recesses  of  the  forest 
a  little  screech-owl  gave  its  shivering  cry  again 
and  again.  The  whippoorwills  in  the  distance 
kept  advising  the  whipping  of  "poor  Will," 
while  others  insisted  that  they  were  "just  poor 
Will's  widow." 

Katydids  were  arguing  with  one  another  that 
Katie  did — or  she  didn't — a  never-ending  con- 
troversy. A  great  owl  in  a  giant  cypress-tree 
among  the  long  festoons  of  gray  Spanish  moss 
wanted  to  know  "  Who-who-who  cooks  for  you-u, 
ah?"  Back  in  the  lake  among  the  marshy  edges 
and  lily-pads  the  bull-frogs  began  their  sonorous 
chorus : 

"Deep-very  deep,  very  deep-deep!" 

"Not  very!    Not  very!    Not  very!" 

' '  Jug-er-rum !    Jug-er-rum !    Jug-er-rum ! ' ' 

"Deep — so  deep — deep!" 

Myriads  of  great  gleaming  fireflies  danced  in 
the  denser  shades.  In  the  east,  as  the  wagon 
rolled  beyond  the  confines  of  the  forest,  the 
immense,  ruddy  full  moon  hung  just  above  the 
horizon  of  field  and  meadow. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  beautiful!"  exclaimed  Annie  and 
her  mother  in  one  breath. 

63 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

With  the  cool  air  of  night  came  scents  of 
woods  and  fields — the  odors  of  wild  flowers,  of 
growing  things.  The  air  here  became  heavy 
with  the  perfume  of  yellow  jasmine;  farther 
on,  the  scent  of  magnolia  blossoms.  Suddenly, 
from  high  above  them,  a  flood  of  rippling  melody 
seemed  to  make  the  moonbeams  vibrate. 

"The  mocking-bird !"  cried  Joe.  "It's  the 
sweetest  music  in  the  world,  for  it  is  the  best 
of  the  songs  of  all  the  other  birds,  improved  by 
the  mocking-bird  himself !" 

The  joyous  rascal  seemed  to  hover  above  them 
in  the  enchanted  silvery  radiance,  for  as  the 
wagon  rolled  in  the  gate  at  home  the  liquid 
notes  of  the  sweetest  songster  of  the  South  fol- 
lowed faintly,  as  if  in  echo  to  the  memory  of  a 
perfect  day. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JOE'S  four-acre  "farm"  was  now  one  of  the 
show-places  of  the  neighborhood. 

The  county  road  ran  by  it,  and  almost  any 
time  of  day  could  be  seen  a  wagon,  a  man  on 
horseback,  or  some  one  afoot  under  the  shade  of 
the  big  oak  on  the  other  side,  which  extended 
its  branches  almost  across  the  highway. 

"Well,  did  you  ever  see  such  corn?" 

"Why,  that  corn's  so  green  till  it's  almost 
black — and  stalk  as  big  as  my  wrist  now!" 

"But,  man  alive,  look  at  that  cotton!" 

"Aw,  shucks,  don't  tell  me  that  boy  of  Tom 
Weston's  growed  all  that  stuff  hisself .  I  believe 
some  of  them  gover'mint  fellers  is  a-doin'  it." 

"What  you  reckon  he's  done  to  that  ground 
in  the  little  field?  Looks  diffrunt  from  that 
outside." 

" Is  diff'runt,  i'  granny;  that  outside  won't 
hardly  grow  rag-weeds.  Just  look  how  poor 
it  is!", 

"Hey,  sonny!"  the  man  who  said  the  govern- 
ment was  doing  the  work^  called  to  Joe,  "what 
you  fertilizing  with?" 

6  65 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"  Brains !"  called  Joe,  as  he  resumed. 

The  corn  was  now  higher  than  Joe's  head, 
and  as  he  worked  in  it,  effectually  concealed 
from  view,  he  heard  many  amusing  conversa- 
tions regarding  himself  and  the  crop. 

He  noticed  that  the  corn  was  throwing  out 
a  circle  of  short  blunt  points,  or  stems,  each 
about  as  large  around  as  a  slate-pencil,  from  the 
two  joints  just  above  the  surface  of  the  ground. 
Joe  did  not  understand  what  they  were. 

He  looked  through  his  Elements  of  Agricul- 
ture, his  government  reports,  the  state  bulletins. 
Nowhere  did  he  find  a  word  about  corn  throwing 
out  a  radiating  circle  of  blunt  spikes  from  the 
lower  joints.  He  was  afraid  to  let  the  subject 
drop,  for  fear  the  corn  was  not  doing  properly. 
He  never  remembered  seeing  anything  of  the 
sort  before;  but  then  he  reflected  that  he  had 
never  noticed  corn  very  closely  before. 

He  walked  down  the  path  leading  to  a  distant 
field  where  his  father  was  working,  to  ask  him 
if  he  knew  anything  about  it.  There  were  a 
few  corn-stalks  standing  in  the  edge  of  last 
year's  corn-field;  he  parted  the  rank  tangle  of 
weeds  about  them  in  the  hope  of  finding  some- 
thing there  that  would  enlighten  him. 

The  old  corn-stalks  had  the  same  things  on 
them,  only  much  longer,  a  double  ring  of  them, 
but  each  spike  had  curved  downward  and  entered 

66 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

the  soil.  Carefully  Joe  dug  some  of  the  dirt 
away  with  his  knife-blade  —  and  he  had  the 
secret ! 

Those  rings  of  spikes  were  additional  main 
roots,  which,  when  they  made  connection  with 
the  ground,  sent  out  a  network  of  smaller 
feeders  to  gather  what  the  plant  needed.  At 
the  end  of  each  of  those  spikes  was  a  fibrous  mass 
of  smaller  roots,  each  spike  being  the  main 
artery,  or  pipe,  by  which  was  conveyed  all  the 
sustenance  the  smaller  roots  at  the  end  gathered 
from  the  soil  in  the  form  of  sap  to  the  main 
stem  of  the  corn-stalk,  and  thence  distributed  to 
leaves  and  other  parts  of  the  plant.  Joe  sat 
flat  upon  the  ground,  his  mind  busy  with  a 
problem. 

"Why  should  the  corn  be  sending  out  those 
additional  roots?"  he  asked  himself. 

"It  must  be  hungry!"  his  mind  answered. 

"Yes,  that's  true.  But  why  is  it  hungry  now? 
Why  didn't  it  do  that  way  before?" 

"It  is  almost  through  making  stalk,"  Reason 
answered.  "By  the  time  those  extra  roots 
touch  the  ground  the  stalks  will  begin  to  put 
on  the  rudimentary  ears,  and  Nature  is  pre- 
paring for  the  extra  drain  upon  the  strength  of 
the  plant ;  it  must  have  more  food  to  mature  the 
ears  of  corn." 

Joe  knew  the  time  for  action  had  arrived,    He 

67 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

hitched  a  horse  to  the  single  wagon  and  drove 
to  town.  Mr.  Somerville  was  not  at  the  store, 
but  Joe  did  not  wait  for  him. 

"Give  me  two  one-hundred-pound  sacks  of 
fertilizer  and  two  one-hundred-pound  sacks  of 
nitrate  of  soda,"  he  ordered. 

Paying  with  a  check — three  dollars  for  the 
fertilizer  and  four  dollars  for  the  nitrate — he 
started  for  home  as  soon  as  the  stuff  was  loaded 
into  the  wagon. 

Opening  a  sack  of  fertilizer  in  the  field,  he 
filled  a  bucket  with  the  yellowish,  powdery  stuff 
— a  combination  of  cotton-seed  meal,  acid  phos- 
phate, phosphoric  acid,  kainite,  and  other  ingre- 
dients. For  a  distance  of  about  fourteen  inches 
around  each  hill  of  corn  he  sprinkled  a  generous 
quantity — two  good  handfuls. 

Finishing  the  first  row,  with  his  hoe  he  chopped 
the  fertilizer  lightly  into  the  soil,  then  pulled 
all  that  dirt  and  some  from  the  middle  of  the 
rows  toward  the  corn-stalks,  where  it  lay,  a  light, 
porous  mound,  easy  for  the  rootlets  to  penetrate, 
and  charged  with  all  the  elements  necessary  to 
make  the  corn  do  its  level  best. 

He  was  four  days  doing  it,  and  when  he 
finished  the  last  row  in  the  prize  acre  he  exam- 
ined the  root-stems  of  the  first  row.  They  had 
grown  almost  half  an  inch,  and  were  nearly 
touching  the  dirt  he  had  pulled  toward  them, 

68 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

He  discovered  another  function  these  above- 
ground  roots  possessed.  The  broad  leaves  of 
the  corn  would  catch  the  heavy  dew  each  night, 
or  some  slight  shower,  and  the  moisture  would 
condense  and  roll  down  the  broad  leaves  until 
it  reached  the  main  stalk;  then  it  would  trickle 
down  the  stem  until  it  reached  this  circle  of  roots; 
then  down  them  to  the  soil  in  a  perfect  circle  of 
moisture  about  the  plant  to  assist  in  its  growth. 

Joe  was  well  tired  out  when  he  got  through 
fixing  the  corn,  and  hired  Link  to  plow  out  the 
Mexican  June  corn,  give  the  cotton  a  dose  of 
fertilizer  and  throw  some  more  dirt  toward  it, 
and  to  assist  in  cutting  off  a  lot  of  sweet-potato 
vines,  which  were  hauled  to  the  pig-lot  to  give 
Mike  and  John  L.  some  green  food.  The  rest 
of  the  vines  were  thrown  back  without  cutting 
on  top  of  their  rows,  and  a  final  plowing  and 
hilling  given  the  potatoes. 

In  about  a  week  the  tiny  ears  of  corn  on  the 
stalks  in  the  prize  acre  began  to  show.  The 
additional  roots  were  now  striking  into  the 
fertilizer.  One  could  almost  see  the  corn  grow- 
ing, and  on  a  still,  quiet  night  a  person  could 
actually  hear  it,  a  faint,  gentle,  whispering 
rustle  as  the  leaves  gradually  unfolded.  Here 
and  there  the  tassels  began  to  show,  and  the 
pink  and  white  silk  of  the  young  ears  was  grow- 
ing longer. 

69 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

The  time  to  use  the  nitrate  of  soda  had 
arrived,  and  it  was  applied  precisely  as  the 
fertilizer  had  been,  except  that  Joe  took  a  rake 
and  merely  abraded  the  crust  of  ground  on  the 
hills  so  the  nitrate  could  be  absorbed  more 
rapidly.  In  addition,  this  working  would  not 
tear  and  break  Nature's  arrangement  of  rootlets 
as  a  deep  plowing  or  hoeing  would  do.  Four 
days  after  the  nitrate  was  applied  the  field  was 
in  full  tassel. 

Joe  admired  the  beautiful  pink  silk  on  the 
ends  of  the  corn  ears  greatly.  One  day  he  was 
looking  at  a  tassel  on  top  of  the  stalk  when  one 
of  the  many  honey-bees  scrambling  busily  around 
flew,  and  the  motion  and  air  from  the  wings  of 
the  insect  caused  a  faint  puff  of  very  fine  yellow 
powder  to  drop  from  the  tassel  and  float  down- 
ward in  the  still  air. 

He  looked  the  matter  up  in  his  book  that 
night  and  found  that  the  real  blossom  of  the 
corn  is  the  tassel;  that  the  tassel  is  composed  of 
hundreds  of  oblong  little  cups,  open  at  the  outer 
end,  the  other  being  attached  to  the  rib,  or 
stem,  which  in  turn  grew  from  the  main  stem 
of  the  tassel. 

He  found  that  this  yellow  powder  was  the 
" pollen.' '  This  was  shaken  out  of  the  blooms 
by  the  wind,  by  bees  and  other  insects,  and  fell 
of  its  own  weight  until  some  of  it  was  caught  by 

70 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

the  waving  silk,  which  was  slightly  damp  and 
gummy  to  make  it  stick.  Each  strand  of  silk, 
he  found,  connected  with  a  grain  of  the ' '  embryo' ' 
or  tiny  corn.  Each  strand  of  silk  was  a  sort 
of  above-ground  root,  formed  for  the  express 
purpose  of  catching  a  bit  of  the  pollen  powder. 
When  the  precious  grains  fell  upon  the  silk  it 
was  absorbed,  transmitted  to  the  tiny  grain, 
which  then  grew  into  a  perfect  one. 

In  this  way  the  grain  of  corn  was  "pollenated" 
— one  of  those  mysterious  and  wonderful  require- 
ments of  Nature,  the  exact  secret  of  which,  and 
precise  reasons  for,  have  never  yet  been  revealed 
to  man.  Certain  it  is,  however,  that  if  the  pollen 
with  its  hidden  and  life-giving  element  does 
not  fall  upon  the  silk  of  the  ears,  there  will  be 
no  corn,  except  imperfect,  dwarfed  grains  of  no 
vitality.  After  the  beautiful  silk  has  performed 
its  life-work  it  turns  brown  and  blackens,  and 
finally  dries  up  completely. 

One  more  application  of  nitrate  three  weeks 
later  in  order  to  give  the  plant  abundant  strength 
to  mature  the  grain,  and  Joe's  work  with  the 
corn  was  ended.  Time  and  nature  alone  could 
do  the  rest. 

Full  of  the  idea  of  breeding  a  better  varietv, 
Joe  provided  himself  with  some  strips  of  white 
cotton  cloth  about  a  foot  long  and  an  inch  or 
two  wide.     Then  row  by  row  he  systematically 

71 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

examined  the  corn-stalks,  hill  by  hill.  In  the 
first  row  he  found  ten  stalks  with  three  ears  on 
the  stalks,  the  third  being  unusually  imperfect. 
About  the  two  largest  and  best  stalks  with  the 
largest  and  best  third  ear  in  that  row  he  tied 
the  white  string  to  mark  for  seed. 

In  next  to  the  last  row,  to  his  great  joy,  he 
found  an  enormous  sturdy  stalk  with  three 
perfect  ears  on  it,  and  below  the  third  ear  a 
faint,  rudimentary  fourth  ear,  just  a  suspicion 
of  an  ear.  It  was  the  only  stalk  of  its  kind  in  the 
whole  acre! 

This  stalk,  he  decided,  was  to  be  the  parent 
of  a  variety  that  the  next  year  would  show  three 
good  ears  and  a  more  clearly  defined  fourth 
one.  He  would  plant  the  seed  in  a  patch  by 
itself,  so  the  pollen  from  inferior  varieties  could 
not  fall  upon  the  silk  and  check  the  upward 
tendency  of  the  new  variety.  By  doing  this  year 
after  year  his  four-eared  variety  was  certain. 

"Hey,  Joe!"  called  a  countryman  one  day, 
reining  up  his  team.  "I  want  to  get  some  of 
that  corn  for  seed;  will  you  sell  it?" 

"Yes,  sir,  after  it  has  been  measured  by  the 
committee.     Can't  touch  it  until  then." 

"AH  right;  I  want  some.  What  do  you  ask 
for  it?" 

"Two  dollars  and  a  half  a  bushel  for  selected 
seed." 

72 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"SufTerin'  Moses;   that's  mighty  steep,  Joe!" 
"  Yes,  and  it's  mighty  good  corn,  too.     It  will 

make  three  times  as  much  as  you  have  been 

getting,  with  the  right  treatment." 

"Well,  I  reckon  it's  wuth  it.     Put  me  down 

for  two  bushels,  and  I'll  norate  the  news  around 

that  you'll  sell  for  that  price." 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  last  week  in  July  brought  the  first  open 
cotton-boll.  There  were  hundreds  of  others 
cracking,  ready  to  burst  with  the  beautiful  snow- 
white  mass  of  fiber. 

Joe  remembered  reading  that  the  absence  of 
trash,  grit,  or  discolorations  in  cotton  was  worth 
several  dollars  a  bale.  He  recalled  how  his 
father  and  the  other  farmers  would  do — wait 
until  nearly  the  whole  crop  had  opened  before 
starting  the  picking.  The  lowest  limbs  of  the 
cotton-stalk  matured  their  fruit  first ;  and  often 
the  wind  or  rain  would  cause  the  cotton  to  fall 
to  the  ground,  to  be  beaten  into  the  dirt,  dis- 
colored, filled  with  grit  and  sticks  and  leaves. 

Then  the  picking  would  go  forward  in  a  rush; 
the  sacks  the  pickers  carried  would  be  emptied 
right  on  the  ground  at  the  ends  of  the  rows,  and 
the  cotton  scooped  up  from  there  with  a  shovel, 
a  pitchfork,  or  in  armfuls  and  thrown  into  an 
open  wagon-bed.  Then  some  one,  often  with 
muddy  feet,  would  tramp  the  loose  cotton  in  the 
wagon,  inflicting  more  dirt  and  discolorations. 

Joe  determined  his  cotton  should  be  handled 

74 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

differently.  There  was  an  abandoned  negro 
cabin  near  the  field ;  he  swept  it  out  twice,  then 
with  a  pine-top  dusted  it  thoroughly.  He  col- 
lected all  the  empty  oat,  corn,  and  meal  sacks 
about  the  place,  turned  them  inside  out  and 
shook  them  until  there  was  no  dirt  or  dust  left 
in  them;  these  he  piled  in  the  cabin  ready  for 
use. 

He  got  Mrs.  Weston  to  sew  a  strip  of  stout 
bed-ticking  across  the  mouth  of  a  fifty-pound 
meal  sack  so  he  could  sling  it  across  his  shoulders, 
the  open  mouth  of  the  sack  at  his  left  side, 
ready  to  receive  the  cotton  as  he  picked  it. 
Then  he  waited  for  more  cotton  to  open. 

He  went  through  the  prize  acre  of  corn  and 
pulled  the  fodder  off  as  high  as  he  could  reach. 
It  was  rather  dry  by  this  time,  but  he  thought 
a  dollar  or  two  could  be  made  in  that  way  to 
cut  down  the  expense  of  the  acre.  He  got  two 
hundred  good  big  bundles  of  fodder,  which  Mr. 
Somerville  sold  for  him  at  two  cents  a  bundle — 
that  meant  four  dollars  clipped  from  the  expense- 
account. 

By  this  time  enough  open  bolls  gleamed  white 
among  the  cotton  plants  to  make  it  worth 
while  to  start  picking.  Slinging  his  sack  over 
his  shoulder,  Joe  began  systematically  going 
down  one  row  and  up  another.  When  he  came 
to  an  open  boll,  he  grasped  it  near  the  stem  with 

75 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

his  left  hand,  then  with  thumb  and  first  three 
fingers  of  his  right  pulled  the  fluffy  cotton  from 
the  flaring  mouth  of  the  boll. 

He  had  never  noticed  before  how  much  a 
green  cotton-boll  was  like  a  green  hickory-nut 
husk,  only  larger,  and  the  boll  opened  at  the 
outer  end  when  ripe  very  similar  to  a  chestnut 
burr  after  the  frost  has  fallen  upon  it. 

When  he  filled  the  sa.ck  he  carried,  it  was 
emptied  directly  into  one  of  the  oat  sacks  he 
had  provided,  and  the  cotton  never  touched  the 
ground.  Each  bit  of  dead  leaf  or  stem  or  hull 
of  the  dried  boll  was  picked  out,  and  nothing 
marred  the  whiteness  of  his  product.  As  each 
oat  sack  was  filled  he  tied  the  mouth  of  it  with 
stout  twine,  and  stowed  it  away  in  the  dry  cabin. 

In  a  week  he  had  picked  enough  to  make  a 
bale.  The  sacks  were  loaded  into  the  wagon, 
and  a  neighborhood  gin-owner  was  induced  to 
raise  steam  and  gin  the  cotton  for  him. 

The  cotton  was  dumped  into  a  hopper;  then 
it  was  conveyed  to  the  gin — an  arrangement  of 
round,  small  saws  with  fine  teeth,  set  so  closely 
together  on  a  revolving  shaft  that  the  seed  could 
not  pass  between  the  saws.  A  roller  kept  throw- 
ing the  cotton  against  the  battery  of  saws,  about 
five  feet  long,  and  the  swiftly  revolving  saws 
would  catch  the  lint  growing  to  each  cotton-seed. 
The  result  was  that  the  seed  could  not  pass  the 

76 


"that's  the  earliest  bale  i've  ever  seen  in  this  county 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

saws,  but  the  lint  was  yanked  off  in  a  jiffy, 
and  the  seed  fell  into  a  trough  below.  Behind 
the  saws  was  a  "brush"  which  collected  the 
lint  from  the  saws,  and  it  passed  over  a  set  of 
rollers  in  a  continuous  web  or  "bat"  and  fell 
in  loose  folds  into  a  great  box  below  the  gin- 
stand. 

When  all  had  been  ginned,  a  big  lid  with  a 
screw  above  was  let  down  into  the  box  where 
the  fluffy  "bat"  lay,  fold  upon  fold.  The  screw 
was  tightened  until  the  cotton  was  mashed  to 
about  one-tenth  of  its  loose  size;  rough  jute 
bagging  was  wrapped  about  it,  and  six  thin  iron 
bands  or  "ties"  placed  about  the  bale  to  hold 
it  in  shape.  The  "press"  was  opened — and  out 
rolled  Joe's  bale  of  cotton! 

"By  jinks,  that's  the  earliest  bale  I've  ever 
seen  in  this  county,  and  I've  been  ginning  here 
twenty-five  years!"  remarked  the  owner  of  the 
gin.  The  bale  was  hoisted  onto  the  scales  and 
weighed. 

"Mighty  near  standard — four  hundred  and 
ninety  pounds;  only  ten  more  and  you  would 
have  had  a  standard  bale." 

Joe  sacked  his  cotton-seed,  and,  refusing  an 
offer  from  the  ginner  at  the  rate  of  fifteen  dollars 
a  ton  for  them,  to  sell  to  a  cottonseed-oil  mill 
for  crushing  purposes,  took  them  back  home  to 
^ell  for  seed  and  for  his  own  use, 

77 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

The  new  bale  of  cotton  was  hurried  to  town. 
At  the  cotton-warehouse  a  hole  was  cut  in  the 
side  of  the  bale  by  the  weigher,  who  certified 
the  weight  and  pulled  a  sample  of  the  lint  from 
the  hole  he  had  made.  This  was  wrapped  in 
a  piece  of  clean  manila  paper,  and  Joe  and  Mr. 
Somerville  sallied  forth  to  sell  the  cotton. 

The  first  buyer  they  went  to  could  scarcely 
believe  his  eyes — that  a  bale  had  been  produced 
three  weeks  before  cotton  was  expected  to  come 
on  the  market.  He  took  a  lock  of  the  fiber 
between  the  thumb  and  forefinger  of  his  left 
hand.  Grasping  the  ends  of  the  lock  with  the 
similar  fingers  of  his  right  hand,  he  pulled  steadily. 

It  parted,  and  in  each  hand  he  had  a  lock  of 
tolerably  straight  cotton.  Repeating  the  proc- 
ess five  or  six  times,  he  had  every  strand  straight- 
ened out;  and,  placing  the  two  pieces  together, 
he  went  to  the  stronger  light  by  the  window  and 
examined  it. 

"This  is  a  new  cotton  in  this  neighborhood," 
he  said.  "The  staple  is  about  an  inch  and  an 
eighth.  The  best  we  get  around  here  is  an  inch. 
It's  mighty  nice  and  clean — if  the  bale  is  all 
like  this." 

"Every  bit,  sir.  I  handled  it  so  it  would  be 
clean/ '  said  Joe. 

"What  11  you  offer,  Dan?"  inquired  Mr. 
Somerville. 

78 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Well,  New  Orleans  spot  cotton  is  quoted 
to-day  at  twelve  cents  a  pound  for  middling; 
this,  however,  classes  as  middling  fair,  a  grade 
or  so  better.  On  account  of  the  staple  and 
cleanliness  of  the  cotton  I'll  give  you  twelve  and 
a  half." 

"Too  low  for  that  grade,"  said  Mr.  Somerville. 

"Ill  make  it  thirteen,"  urged  the  buyer. 

"Write  your  bid  on  the  sample."  The  buyer 
did  so  and  signed  his  initials. 

The  next  buyer  raised  his  offer  half  a  cent 
a  pound.  The  third  and  last  buyer  in  town 
was  the  representative  of  a  great  firm  of  New 
Orleans  factors. 

"I  think  our  farmers  ought  to  be  encouraged 
to  grow  better  cotton  and  handle  it  cleanly  and 
properly,  as  you  have,  young  man,  and  get  it 
on  the  market  earlier.  I'll  pay  you  fourteen 
cents." 

"You've  sure  bought  a  bale  of  cotton,"  said 
Mr.  Somerville.  "  Here  is  the  warehouse  receipt 
and  weight." 

The  buyer  made  a  calculation. 

"Bale  of  four  hundred  and  ninety  pounds  at 
fourteen  cents  comes  to  sixty-eight  dollars  and 
sixty  cents.  Here's  your  check.  Come  around 
again,  son;  glad  to  have  met  a  progressive 
farmer  like  you." 

"Well,   Joe,"   said   Mr.   Somerville,    "that's 

79 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

doing  a  heap  more  than  the  folks  around  here. 
A  bale  to  the  acre  is  what  they  make  up  in  the 
Delta,  and  that's  about  the  richest  land  in  crea- 
tion." 

"Yes,  sir,  it's  pretty  good,"  said  Joe,  as  he 
made  out  a  deposit-slip  for  the  check  at  the 
bank,  "but  I  reckon  I  can  get  another  small 
bale  off  that  acre  when  all  the  top  bolls 
open." 

"Great  Scott!  Say  that  again,  will  you?" 
Mr.  Somerville  and  the  cashier  stared  at  him 
in  amazement. 

"You're  joking,  aren't  you,  Joe?" 

"No,  sir,  I'm  not.  Drive  out  there  and  see 
for  yourself." 

"Well,  this  certainly  does  beat  the  Dutch!" 
Mr.  Somerville  whistled.  "Two  bales  to  the 
acre — well,  well,  well!" 

It  was  three  weeks  and  a  half  longer,  though, 
before  all  the  top  bolls  opened  and  Joe  got  his 
second  bale.  It  was  small,  barely  four  hundred 
pounds,  and  the  market  had  tumbled  to  ten 
cents  by  the  time  he  took  it  to  the  buyer  who 
got  his  first  bale.  On  account  of  the  excellence 
in  the  staple  and  freedom  from  trash  he  paid 
eleven  cents  for  it,  and  Joe  banked  forty-four 
dollars.  The  total  of  one  hundred  and  twelve 
dollars  and  sixty  cents  for  one  acre  of  cotton 
was  entirely  satisfactory;  moreover,  there  was 

80 


«      .     <  *.. 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

forty  or  fifty  bushels  of  seed  he  could  sell  for 
planting  at  a  dollar  a  bushel,  easily. 

The  next  thing  was  to  get  the  potatoes  on  the 
market.  They  were  plowed  up — a  hundred  and 
forty  bushels  at  sixty  cents  brought  $84.00, 
which,  added  to  the  amount  of  the  truck  on  that 
acre,  made  $215.00.  A  hundred  bundles  of  fod- 
der from  the  Mexican  June  corn  at  three  cents 
brought  $3.00  to  be  added  to  the  oats  acre,  and 
seventy  bushels  of  the  June  corn  sold  at  seventy 
cents  brought  $49.00;  total  for  the  acre  of  oats 
and  June  corn,  $64.00,  with  a  crop  of  turnips 
yet  to  be  heard  from. 

The  cow-pease  he  did  not  count,  as  he  let  the 
vines  mature  the  pease  for  seed,  as  pease  were 
scarce  and  expensive,  and  he  planned  to  plant 
more  of  them  next  year. 

Thus  far  receipts  had  been:  cotton,  $112.60; 
vegetables  and  potatoes,  $215.00;  oats  and  corn, 
$64.00;  total,  $391.60,  without  considering  the 
competitive  corn  acre  or  the  cotton-seed  on 
hand. 


CHAPTER  X 

OCTOBER  fifteenth  the  committee  came  out 
to  measure  Joe's  corn.  The  three  gentle- 
men took  a  standard  bushel  measure  and  a 
standard  scale,  filled  the  measure  by  pulling  the 
corn  from  the  stalks  themselves;  then  weighed 
it  and  made  their  calculations. 

Joe  had  made  one  hundred  and  eighty-eight 
bushels  of  corn  on  one  acre  at  a  cost  of  twelve 
dollars  and  thirty  cents! 

The  committee  took  his  record-sheet,  where  he 
had  faithfully  put  down  everything  he  had  done 
in  connection  with  the  crop,  how  much  he  had 
spent,  how  many  times  and  the  dates  of  working, 
how  much  and  what  fertilizer  and  when  and  how 
applied,  verified  his  calculations,  certified  their 
findings,  signed  it  with  Joe,  and  forwarded  it  to 
the  County  Superintendent  of  Education. 

Joe  now  began  to  gather  his  corn.  The  stalks 
he  had  marked  for  seed  he  got  first;  beautiful, 
perfect  ears  they  were.  Leaving  a  thin  shuck 
upon  these  ears,  he  put  them  in  sacks  and  sus- 
pended them  from  a  hook  in  the  ceiling  of  the 
attic  so  mice  and  rats  could  not  get  at  them. 

82 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

The  three  precious  ears  from  the  stalk  showing 
the  beginnings  of  a  fourth  ear,  reserved  to  experi- 
ment with,  he  slipped  each  in  a  quart  preserve 
jar,  clean  and  dry,  and  screwed  the  top  on 
tightly. 

There  were  twelve  bushels  of  "nubbins"; 
these  he  began  to  feed  to  the  pigs,  now  great 
big  fellows.  He  also  gave  them  the  Mexican 
June  nubbins  and  the  small,  unsalable  sweet- 
potatoes  left  in  the  field.  One  could  almost  see 
those  hogs  putting  on  fat. 

Joe  went  over  his  prize  corn  and  culled  out 
fifty  bushels,  mostly  from  the  stalks  bearing  the 
two  perfect  ears  and  nubbin.  He  sold  the  fifty 
bushels  for  two  and  a  half  dollars  a  bushel.  The 
ten  best  ears  he  saved  to  exhibit  at  the  State 
Fair.  The  sale  of  the  seed-corn  brought  in 
one  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars. 

A  few  days  after  he  had  disposed  of  the  fifty 
bushels  a  man  came  to  him  wanting  some  seed- 
corn. 

"Haven't  any  more,"  said  Joe. 

"My  gracious,  Joe,  you  ain't  sold  all  that 
hundred  and  eighty  bushels  a'ready,  have  you?" 

"Oh,  no;  I've  saved  five  bushels  for  seed  for 
dad  and  myself — money  couldn't  buy  that.  I've 
sold  fifty  bushels  of  selected  seed,  and  I've  culled 
twelve  bushels  of  nubbins.  No,  I've  got  a  hun- 
dred and  eleven  bushels  of  corn  yet," 

83 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Well,  I'll  take  a  bushel  for  seed." 

"I'm  not  willing  to  let  it  go  for  seed.  It  is 
not  the  best ;  that  is  gone.  Corn — just  common, 
ordinary  corn — is  worth  seventy  cents.  I'll  sell 
it  all  to  you  at  that." 

"Ain't  it  good  for  seed?"  queried  the  man,  in 
astonishment.   ' '  Ain't  it  outen  that  same  patch ?" 

"Yes,  but  that  don't  make  it  good  seed-corn, 
or  corn  that  I  will  guarantee  to  make  what  mine 
did  with  the  same  treatment.  The  fifty  bushels 
of  selected  seed  I  did  guarantee." 

"Oh,  shucks!  The  commonest  stalk  in  that 
patch  of  yourn  is  so  much  better  than  the  rest 
of  the  corn  raised  around  here  that  a  feller  is 
bound  to  do  better  with  it.  Gimme  four 
bushels  at  seventy  cents." 

"All  right— with  the  understanding  that  I'm 
not  putting  it  out  as  seed  I  can  vouch  for." 

The  news  was  bruited  around  that  Joe  Weston 
was  selling  his  fine  corn  at  common-corn  prices, 
and  in  two  weeks  he  had  not  a  bushel  left.  To 
each  buyer  he  explained  the  difference  between 
field  selected  seed  and  that  which  he  could  not 
guarantee.  Every  buyer  reasoned  as  the  first 
one  did,  and  bought. 

November  first  Joe  went  to  town,  taking  the 
$77.70  for  the  corn.  Added  to  the  $125.00  he 
had  got  for  seed,  it  made  a  total  of  $202.70  for 
the  prize  acre. 

84 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

He  was  a  bit  worried  as  to  whether  he  had 
acted  fairly  by  Mr.  Somerville  in  refusing  two 
dollars  and  a  half  a  bushel  for  the  corn.  The 
old  merchant  heard  him  through,  then,  placing 
his  hands  on  Joe's  shoulders  and  looking  him 
straight  in  the  eyes,  he  smiled. 

"Son,  don't  you  suppose  I've  heard  of  this 
long  ago?  And  don't  you  suppose  I  was  proud 
of  you  for  acting  with  such  scrupulous  honesty 
and  good  faith  with  your  customers?  I've  got 
plenty  of  money,  Joe,  in  moderation,  and  I'd 
rather  have  had  you  do  just  exactly  as  you  have 
done  than  to  have  some  one  give  me  a  check 
for  a  thousand  dollars." 

"I'm — I'm  much  obliged  sir;  it  just  seemed 
right,  and  I  was  going  to  pay  you  the  difference 
out  of  my  part  if  it  was  wrong." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  have  taken  it.  When- 
ever anything  'seems  right'  to  you,  my  boy, 
you  go  ahead  and  do  it.  Your  ideas  are 
straight." 

Mr.  Somerville  had  figured  up  accounts  with 
Joe's  father.  Mr.  Weston  had  also  realized  well 
from  his  cotton  and  corn;  but,  not  taking  the 
care  Joe  had,  his  yields  were  not  half  as  large  per 
acre,  still  they  were  treble  what  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  make. 

"Well,  I've  come  in  to  settle  up  and  see  about 
that  bet  you  made  that  you  'n'  Joe'd  make  more 

85 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

off  your  four  acres  than  I  would  off'n  twenty- 
five  !"  he  said. 

It  was  a  different  Tom  Weston  that  con- 
fidently challenged  Mr.  Somerville  from  the 
morose,  surly,  envious,  whiskey-drinking  ne'er- 
do-well  of  the  year  before. 

"Now,  look  here,  Tom;  I  didn't  mean  in 
competition  with  a  brand-new  Tom  Weston. 
I  meant  that  no-account  chap  we  used  to  know.'' 

"There  you  go  now,  trying  to  crawfish!  Be 
a  little  sport  now  and  stand  the  racket!"  laughed 
Tom,  who  was  enjoying  the  situation  hugely. 

"Make  him  stick  to  it,  daddy!"  advised  Joe. 

"Well,  wait  until  that  prize  money  is  de- 
cided—" 

"No,  sirree!  We  weren't  talkin'  about  no 
prizes;  we  were  considerin'  straight  farmin'  an' 
sellin'  stuff  off  the  ground — " 

"That's  right,  daddy.  We  didn't  know  any- 
thing about  any  prizes  when  he  said  that.  Don't 
let  him  out-talk  you!" 

"Well,  we'll  have  a  show-down,  then.  Joe 
and  I  have  taken  in  to  date  a  total,  counting 
twenty  dollars'  worth  of  turnips  sold,  of  six 
hundred  and  thirteen  dollars  altogether." 

"Gee  whiz,  that's  farmin'  some,  I  tell  you! 
I  thought  I  had  you  beat  world  without  end, 
amen — " 

"Well,  we  have  some  cotton-seed  and  some 

86 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

cow-pease  that  will  add  something — and  pay  all 
expenses.' ' 

"We  won't  count  them,  as  that  is  part  of  our 
outfit,  or  our  ' operating  capital,'"  said  Joe. 

"All  right,"  said  Mr.  Somerville;  "what  did 
you  make,  Tom?" 

"Six  hundred  and  sixty  dollars!" 

"Beat  us  forty -seven  dollars,  by  George!" 
answered  the  merchant.  "Well,  Tom,  old  hoss, 
I'm  mighty  near  as  proud  of  you  as  I  am  of 
Joe — proud  of  him  for  a  fine  partner  and  you 
for  a  fine  man  that's  coming  to  your  senses. 
I'll  gladly  pay  the  bet. 

"Mr.  Jones!"  he  called  to  a  clerk.  "Take 
these  gentlemen  over  to  the  clothing  department 
and  fit  each  of  them  with  the  best  hat  in  the 
house  and  charge  to  my  account." 

After  the  hats  had  been  got  Mr.  Somerville 
and  Tom  Weston  and  Joe  walked  over  to  the 
office  of  the  County  Superintendent  of  Educa- 
tion, and  found  that  official  in. 

"Look  here,  Professor.  When  are  you — " 
began  Mr.  Somerville. 

"Just  got  the  last  report  in  this  morning. 
I  tell  you  it  was  a  job  getting  returns  from  the 
fifty-eight  boys  in  this  county." 

"Well,  got  any  news  for  us?" 

"Yes,  I  have.  Mr.  Joe  Weston,  I  want  to 
congratulate  you  now.     I  will  announce  in  the 

87 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

paper  to-morrow  that  you  have  won  the  first 
prize  for  this  county." 

"Wh — who  was  next?"  gasped  Joe. 

" Oscar  Henderson;  but  he  did  not  come 
within  ninety  bushels  of  you.  Really,  you  have 
done  remarkably  well,  amazingly  well,  and  you 
ought  to  stand  a  good  show  for  the  state  prize. 

"I'm  calling  a  public  meeting  at  the  court- 
house next  Wednesday  to  award  the  prizes,  so 
you  better  be  on  hand." 

When  they  got  outside  of  the  door  Mr.  Weston 
shook  hands  with  Joe  solemnly. 

"Son,  I'm  powerful  proud  of  ye!"  was  all  his 
father  could  say. 


CHAPTER  XI 

li\  "X  TELL,  by  gracious,  we  beat  'em!"  ex- 
'  V  V  claimed  Mr.  Somerville  as  they  reached 
the  street.  He  was  really  more  excited  than 
Joe  was.  "Come  on  over  and  get  that  suit  of 
clothes  and  outfit  I  promised  to  the  winner." 

"Mr.  Somerville,  I  think  that  suit  ought  to 
go  to  Oscar  Henderson.  You  and  I  were  part- 
ners on  this  farming  business,  and,  somehow,  I 
believe  it  would  be  best — " 

"There  you  are,  right  again!  Of  course 
there's  no  harm  in  your  taking  the  suit,  but  I 
reckon  it  would  be  better  to  give  it  to  the  next 
highest  man.  I'll  go  right  back  in  there  and 
tell  the  professor  about  the  suit  for  Oscar 
Henderson." 

"I'm  glad  we  did  that,"  said  Joe  as  Mr. 
Somerville  came  out. 

"I  am,  too ;  but  I  am  going  to  give  you  a  suit 
anyway,  myself." 

Joe's  father  cleared  his  throat  awkwardly. 

"Mr.  Somerville,  I — I  want  to  give  Joe  them 
clo'es  myself.  I've  been  a  powerful  poor  daddy 
to. a  mighty  fine  son,  an'  I  ain't  never  done 

89 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

nothin'  much  for  him.  He's  made  a  little  man 
out  of  himself  in  spite  of  me,  an'  I've  got  a  little 
money  this  year  for  the  first  time — by  sorter 
follerin'  after  his  lead — an'  I  want  to  show  that 
I  got  some  intrus'  in  him,  anyway." 

"Well,  now,  that's  all  right,  and  I'm  glad  to 
resign  in  your  favor,  Tom." 

"I  believe  I'd  rather  have  daddy  give  'em  to 
me,  Mr.  Somerville.  We  are  gettin'  to  be  mighty 
good  pardners  now,  ourselves,"  smiled  Joe. 

"You  bet  we  are,"  delightedly  said  Tom 
Weston.  "I've  got  the  best  boy  in  seven  states 
— an'  I'm  just  fmdin'  it  out." 

"When  do  you  reckon  we'll  hear  from  the 
state  prizes  and  those  fertilizer  prizes?"  asked 
Joe. 

"Oh,  not  until  some  time  late  in  December. 
They've  got  to  go  over  the  returns  from  eighty 
counties  and  figure  it  all  up,  and  I  saw  in  a 
newspaper  the  other  day  that  there  were  over 
four  thousand  boys  competing  in  this  state." 

"I  don't  suppose  I  stand  any  chance  on  that," 
said  Joe. 

"Pretty  long  odds,"  remarked  his  father. 

"There's  no  telling;  it's  possible,  but  not 
likely.  I  would  not  get  my  hopes  up  on  that, 
Joe,  if  I  were  you.  This  is  doing  well  enough 
for  one  year."  Mr.  Somerville  was  trying  to 
prepare  him  for  the  possible  disappointment. 

90 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"I  certainly  did  want  that  Washington  trip, 
and  to  see  things  up  there  and  talk  to  the  boss 
man  in  this  agricultural  business." 

"Well,  son,  maybe  next  year,  with  what 
you've  learned  this  year,  an*  havin'  your  ground 
already  in  good  fix,  you  can  beat  'em  to  it." 

"We  are  carrying  on  like  I'd  lost,"  laughed  Joe. 
"The  thing  isn't  decided  that  I  have  lost  yet." 

"'Nothin'  like  bein'  prepared,'  as  the  old 
maid  said  what  kept  her  weddin'  clothes  ready 
fifty  years  in  case  some  feller  would  ask  her," 
replied  Tom  Weston. 

"What  '11  you  take  for  that  poor  old  place  we 
are  living  on,  Mr.  Somerville?"  asked  Joe,  after 
a  few  moments'  silence,  when  the  three  had 
returned  to  the  store. 

"Let's  see.  There's  eighty-six  acres  all  to- 
gether— " 

"Wouldn't  you  sell  half  of  it?" 

"No,  couldn't  do  that,  Tom.  You  know  how 
it  lies;  it  could  not  well  be  divided.  Then  the 
part  back  from  the  road  I  did  not  sell  you  could 
not  be  disposed  of  at  all." 

"Well,  what  '11  you  take?" 

Mr.  Somerville's  eyes  twinkled. 

"Since  you  and  Joe  have  made  such  crops  on 
it  this  year,  it's  worth  a  heap  more — " 

"Now,  that's  what  I  call  a  dog-mean  trick!" 
laughed  Joe. 

91 


JOE,   THE    BOOK   FARMER 

"But,  as  I  was  going  on  to  say,  I'll  not  tack 
on  that  extra  five  dollars  an  acre." 

"What's  the  best  you'll  do  on  about  four 
years'  time?" 

"I'll  sell  the  eighty-six  acres  and  throw  in  the 
house  and  barn  for  twenty  dollars  an  acre." 

"One  thousand  seven  hundred  and  twenty 
dollars!  That's  a  heap  of  money  to  a  feller 
that  ain't  got  none  hardly." 

"That's  very  reasonable,  Tom." 

"Yes,  I  ain't  disputin'  that,  but  you  see  I 
only  made  six  hundred  and  sixty  dollars.  My 
account  with  you  is  forty  dollars,  ain't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  I'm  agoin'  to  pay  you  back  that  sixty 
dollar  bonus  you  gave  me  on  Joe's  time — " 

"No,  Tom,  I  don't  want—" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  am.  That's  an  investment  for 
myself — self-respec'.  As  for  that  hundred  you 
paid  me  for  Joe,  why,  a  trade's  a  trade,  an'  you 
made  money  on  it." 

"More  than  doubled  my  money." 

"Well,  that  leaves  me  with  five  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars.  Then  I  owe  you  a  hundred  and 
fifty  rent;  that  leaves  three  fifty.  I  want  to 
keep  a  hundred  cash  to  run  on,  so's  I  won't 
go  in  debt,  and  to  buy  me  a  start  of  good  hogs 
and  some  chickens  with;  an'  that  only  leaves  me 
two  hundred  I  could  pay  cash  on  the  place." 

92 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"  That's  a  pretty  small  payment,  Tom — " 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Somerville,"  said  Joe,  who 
had  been  an  interested  listener ;  "I  think  I'll  just 
change  my  plans  some.  Seems  to  me  paying 
rent's  a  waste  of  money,  and  the  first  thing 
folks  ought  to  do  is  to  get  some  solid  ground  of 
their  own  under  their  feet." 

"No  doubt  about  that,  Joe;  but  business  is 
business.' ' 

"I  know  that,  and  I'm  going  to  talk  business. 
Daddy,  if  you'll  fix  that  place  up  so  mother  and 
Annie  will  have  a  home  as  long  as  they  live,  in 
case  anything  happens  to  us,  and  then  give  me 
half  of  what's  made  on  it  after  it's  paid  for,  I'll 
pitch  in  and  help  pay  for  it." 

"Why,  son,  I  don't  want  to  take  your  money." 

"It  ain't  that,  daddy;  it's  investing  it.  Mr. 
Somerville  got  three  hundred  and  seven  dollars, 
half  of  what  I  made  this  year,  straight  farming. 
I  can  make  that  again  next  year,  and  more,  for 
I've  got  some  experience  now.  You  pay  him 
one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars'  rent;  there's  over 
four  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  that  we  could  pay 
on  the  debt  next  year  and  still  be  in  as  good  fix 
as  we  are  right  now.  Four  years  of  that  would 
give  us  a  clear  title  to  it." 

"That's  so,"  assented  Tom  Weston. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  plan?" 

"It's  all  right." 

93 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

*  'Very  well,  then,  Mr.  Somerville,  we'll  trade. 
I  get  seventy-five  dollars  prize-money,  which, 
added  to  my  three  hundred  and  seven  dollars, 
gives  three  hundred  and  eighty-two  dollars.  Out 
of  the  eighty-two  I  want  to  pay  you  for  that  pig 
I  was  telling  you  about,  then  the  rest  I  am  going 
to  keep  to  buy  fertilizer  with  and  pay  for  help 
and  buy  some  stock — " 

"What  sort  of  stock,  Joe?"  asked  the  old 
gentleman,  curiously. 

"Little  pigs  and  calves  and  yearlings.  I  can 
pick  them  up  cheap  and  raise  them  for  almost 
nothing,  and  make  some  money  that  way." 

"That's  a  good  idee,"  said  Tom  Weston. 
"Folks  in  town  here  will  sell  good  blooded  calves 
cheaper  to  a  person  that's  goin'  to  raise  'em 
than  to  a  butcher  to  kill." 

"Well,  I'll  have  three  hundred  dollars  I'll 
put  with  dad's  two  hundred,  and  we'll  pay  you 
five  hundred  down  on  the  place." 

The  three  of  them  went  to  a  lawyer's  office, 
and  papers  were  drawn  up.  The  contract  pro- 
vided that  the  title  to  the  place  was  to  be  vested 
in  a  trustee  for  Joe  and  Annie;  that  Mrs.  Weston 
and  Annie  were  to  use  it  as  a  home  as  long  as 
they  lived,  if  they  desired ;  and  that  Joe,  after  all 
debts  due  on  the  place  were  paid,  was  to  have 
one-half  the  income.  Joe  and  his  father  also 
bound  themselves  each  to  place  in  the  bank 

94 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

every  year  fifty  dollars  for  the  benefit  of  Mrs. 
Weston  and  Annie  as  an  old-age  and  "  rainy- 
day'  '  fund,  and  to  keep  it  at  interest  for  them. 
The  money  was  paid,  and  the  kindly  old  mer- 
chant shook  hands  with  them. 

"I'm  sorry  the  planting  firm  of  Weston  and 
Somerville  has  dissolved.  I've  made  money  out 
of  it;  but  I've  done  more  than  that — I've  made 
two  rattling  good  farmers  where  there  wasn't 
any  before,  and  the  influence  of  Joe's  work  is 
worth  I  don't  know  how  many  thousands  of 
dollars  to  this  county,"  said  the  retiring  senior 
partner. 

As  Joe  and  his  father  rode  home  it  seemed  a 
new  world  to  them. 

"By  the  way,  daddy,  I've  made  something  on 
the  trade,  too.  We  got  my  'farm'  fenced,  all 
right,  and  there's  that  fifty  bushels  of  cotton- 
seed I  can  sell.  I'll  have  more  money  to  run  on 
than  I  thought  I  would." 

"Well,  Joe,  we've  shore  got  to  hustle  now  and 
do  some  farmin'  to  get  that  place  paid  for;  but, 
thank  God,  she's  ourn,  an'  we'll  come  out  all 
right." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THERE  remained  now  only  one  thousand 
two  hundred  and  twenty  dollars  to  pay  on 
the  place.  After  discussing  their  affairs  all  the 
way  home,  when  Joe  and  his  father  unhitched 
the  team  and  started  to  the  house,  Tom  Weston 
handed  Joe  the  paper  the  lawyer  had  prepared, 
which  insured  a  home  to  the  two  women-folk. 

"You  hand  it  to  her,  Joe — it's  your  doin's 
more'n  mine,"  he  said. 

Joe  thought  of  a  little  speech  he  would  make, 
but  at  the  supper-table  he  forgot  all  about  it, 
and  merely  poked  the  paper  at  his  mother. 

"There's  a  home  for  you  and  sis,"  was  all 
he  could  say. 

As  his  mother  read,  tears  of  happiness  welled 
from  her  eyes,  and  she  threw  her  arms  about 
their  necks. 

"Oh,  I'm  proud  of  my  two  boys,  and  I  thank 
you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  but  the  dearest 
thing  to  me  is  that  you  two  are  beginning  to 
understand  each  other  and  are  such  good  com- 
rades." 

96 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"We  are  sure  enough  pardners  now>  mother, 
ain't  we,  Joe?" 

"  Yes,  sir — in  every  way." 

"An',  mother,  when  we  get  this  place  paid 
for  we're  agoin'  to  build  a  sure  enough  nice 
house  on  it,  with  lots  of  closets  an'  sich,  an' 
big  piazzers,  an'  all  painted  nice,  an'  a  lightnin'- 
rod  on  it,  too." 

"That  will  be  fine;  but,  Tom,  I  love  every 
log  in  this  dear  old  place,  and  I  don't  want  you 
and  Joe  to  put  yourselves  under  a  big  strain  on 
that  account — let's  get  something  ahead  first." 

Joe  and  his  father  lost  no  time  getting  the 
land  in  shape  for  next  year,  and  followed  the 
method  Joe  used  the  year  before.  All  the  barn- 
yard fertilizer  was  now  carefully  scraped  up 
and  saved,  leaves  and  trash  hauled  and  put  into 
the  soil  as  a  permanent  investment.  Link  Wash- 
ington was  hired  regularly  now,  and  never  a 
day  passed  that  the  three  of  them  did  not  do 
a  solid  day's  work.  The  place  began  to  take 
on  an  entirely  new  aspect. 

Joe  sold  the  pigs  for  his  mother  and  Annie — 
forty-three  dollars  for  the  two — and  he  and  his 
father  insisted  that  Mrs.  Weston  use  every  cent 
of  it  for  herself  and  Annie.  They  could  not  keep 
her  from  buying  a  nice  tie  and  a  dozen  linen 
handkerchiefs  each  for  "her  boys,"  as  she  called 
them,  and  even  Link  was  made  happy  with  a 

7  97 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

green-and-blue   tie  and    a   pair  of   bright  red 
suspenders. 

Mr.  Weston  took  the  wagon  one  day,  when 
they  had  about  caught  up  with  work,  and 
vanished  down  the  road  toward  the  swamp. 
When  he  returned  he  had  four  splendid  young 
magnolia-trees,  a  great  clump  of  yellow  jasmine 
roots,  and  two  fine  young  crab-apple  trees. 

"Gives  a  feller  a  different  feelin' — don't  it, 
Joe? — to  own  land.  Now,  I  never  cared  about 
fixin'  up  this  front  lawn  before,  but  now  it's 
ourn,  why,  I  want  to  make  it  pretty." 

"I'm  glad  you  got  those  crab-apples,"  said 
Joe,  as  he  tramped  the  dirt  about  one  of  the 
trees  where  it  had  been  set.  "I  think  the  blos- 
soms in  spring  are  just  about  the  sweetest  of  any." 

"Well,  when  that  yellow  jasmine  gets  to 
runnin,  over  the  front  porch  it  '11  be  hard  to 
beat.  And  the  magnolias  11  look  pretty  fine, 
won't  they?" 

"You  bet.  Now  if  we'll  just  get  some  wood- 
bine to  run  over  that  old  oak  stump,  and  a  lot 
of  those  yellow  jonquils  to  go  on  each  side  of 
the  front  walk,  we'll  be  fixed.  I  think  we  ought 
to  name  this  place,  too." 

"That's  a  good  idee.  What  '11  we  call  it— 
'Prize  Acre  Farm'?" 

"  No,  I  don't  like  that.  How's  '  The  Advance 
Farm'?" 

98 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"That's  all  right;  if  mother  and  Annie  like  it, 
she  goes." 

"I  think  I'll  ride  over  this  afternoon  and  see 
Jim  Sullivan." 

"What  for?" 

"I  heard  Jim  was  trying  to  sell  off  everything 
he  has;  says  he's  going  to  Texas — a  man  ain't 
got  no  chance  in  this  country."  Joe  cast  his 
eyes  around  at  his  father. 

"Jim  Sullivan's  a  lazy,  trifling,  whiskey- 
drinkin'  liar,  that's  all  I've  got  to  say  about 
it,"  responded  Tom  Weston,  emphatically.  "An' 
I  reckon  I  ought  to  know,  for  I've  proved  it." 

"Well,  if  he's  going  to  sell  those  pigs  off  cheap 
I'll  buy  'em,  for  it's  a  good  stock  of  hogs." 

"Yes,  and  while  you're  about  it  you  better 
buy  the  old  sow,  too;  she's  a  good  mother  to 
them  pigs,  mighty  reliable." 

Down  the  road  a  boy  was  approaching  on  horse- 
back at  a  lope.   He  reined  at  the  gate  and  called : 

"Joe,  here's  a  note  Mr.  Somerville  sent  you!" 

Joe  was  alarmed,  and  could  not  imagine  what 
it  was  as  he  tore  the  envelope  open.  A  yellow 
telegraph  envelope  fell  out. 

Dear  Joe, — (wrote  Mr.  Somerville), — Here's  a  tele- 
gram which  came  for  you  this  morning.  Of  course  the 
company  does  not  deliver  messages  in  the  country,  so  I 
put  this  chap  on  a  horse  and  sent  it  out.  Hope  it  is 
good  news,  Your  friend,  J.  Somerville, 

99 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

With  trembling  fingers  Joe  opened  the  mes- 
sage, and  the  typewritten  words  swam  before 
his  eyes.  It  was  from  the  State  Superintendent 
of  Agriculture. 

"  Congratulations.  You  win  state  champion- 
ship by  margin  of  five  bushels  and  two  dollars  less 
expense.  Four  thousand  two  hundred  contest- 
ants. Also  awarded  nitrate  and  fertilizer  prizes. 
Report  my  office  thirtiethfor  trip  to  Washington.' ' 

His  father  read  the  message  over  his  shoulder, 
and  as  both  finished  they  grinned  foolishly  at 
each  other  and  stood  there  shaking  hands. 

"Well,  by  gum!"  said  Mr.  Weston.  "Well, 
by  gum  r  He  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say, 
and  remarked,  "Well,  by  gum!"  again. 

"There's  two  hundred  more  to  slap  on  this 
place!"  said  Joe,  as  his  wits  came  back  to  him. 
"We'll  only  owe  a  thousand  then!" 

"Well,  by  gum  I"  wonderingly  replied  his 
father.     Then  he  grabbed  Joe  by  the  arm. 

"Come  on  and  le's  go  tell  the  gals  about  it!" 

"Son,  when  you  get  to  Washington  and  shake 
hands  with  the  President,"  said  Mrs.  Weston, 
pausing  a  moment  to  look  at  him  as  she  packed 
his  suit-case  for  the  trip,  "you  just  remember 
there's  an  old  country-woman  'way  down  here 
in  a  split  log  house  that  thinks  you're  a  sight  big- 
ger man  than  he  is.    Don't  you  ever  forget  that !" 

ioo 


CHAPTER  XIII 

JOE  and  his  father  were  riding  homeward 
from  the  railroad  station.  Joe's  trip  to 
Washington  as  the  champion  corn-raiser  of  his 
state  was  over. 

As  they  rounded  the  shoulder  of  the  hill  and 
saw  the  little  farm  home  in  the  bright  morning 
sunshine  Joe's  face  wreathed  in  a  smile. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "I  can 
understand  that  song  'Home,  Sweet  Home'  a 
heap  better  now.  There  is  l  no  place  like  home.' 
It  was  mighty  fine  and  all  that  in  Washington, 
but  I'm  sure  glad  to  be  back." 

"I'm  proud  to  hear  ye  say  that,  boy!"  an- 
swered his  father.  "I  was  a  bit  fearful  you'd 
come  back  here  dissatisfied,  an'  maybe  after  a 
while  go  away  an'  leave  us — " 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!"  said  Joe,  stoutly.  "I've 
come  back  with  the  idea  of  sticking  right  here 
and  making  this  the  best  farm  in  the  state." 

"Well,  hooray  for  that!" 

"I  mean  it,  too.  I've  got  to  have  a  lot  more 
schooling,  but  I'm  going  to  mix  it  in  with  my 
work." 

IOI 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"So  you  think  you'll  stick  to  farming,  son?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"After  seem'  all  the  government  at  Washing- 
ton I'd  'a'  thought  you'd  want  to  be  a  lawyer 
or  somethin'?" 

"I  did  think  of  that  before  I  went  there,  but 
the  President  took  me  to  the  window  and 
pointed  out  the  Capitol  and  the  Treasury  and 
post-office  buildings  and  some  others. 

" '  You  think  all  this  is  great,  don't  you,  Joe?' 
says  the  President. 

" ' Of  course  I  do,'  says  I. 

"'Which  is  the  greatest,  these  things  or  that 
which  makes  them  possible?'  he  asked,  looking 
hard  at  me. 

"'The  cause  of  'em,  of  course — that  which 
makes  'em  possible,'  I  told  him. 

"'Do  you  know  what  that  is?'  he  asked  me. 
I  told  him  I  reckoned  it  was  the  people. 

" '  Yes,  the  people,  but  particularly  the  farmer. 
The  whole  structure  of  government  is  founded 
on  him,  for  people  must  eat  before  they  are  gov- 
erned. I  think  a  good  farmer  is  just  as  valuable 
as  a  good  Senator!'  he  said." 

"Well,  I  declare!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Weston.  "I 
had  no  idee  we  farmers  were  that  important." 

"Me  either,"  said  Joe,  "but  right  then  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  be  a  farmer,  and  a  good  one. 
I've  got  a  heap  more  respect  for  farmers  now." 

102 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Annie  spied  them  down  the  road  and  came 
racing  to  meet  them.  Mrs.  Weston  waved  an 
affectionate  greeting  from  the  front  gate.  Joe 
rushed  in  and  gave  his  mother  a  hug. 

' 'It  sure  is  fine  to  be  home  again  and  see  you 
all.     How's  everything  getting  along?" 

"Just  fine!  Chickens  started  to  laying,  and 
we've  six  little  new  pigs." 

"An'  a  new  calf  named  Spot!"  insisted  Annie. 

"Come  on  in  and  tell  us  about  your  trip. 
Did  you  really  see  the  President?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Weston. 

"Yes'm,  and  a  mighty  fine  man  he  is,  too. 
We  had  a  big  argument — " 

"What?  You  didn't  argufy  with  the  Presi- 
dent, did  you,  son?"  she  inquired,  in  horrified 
tones. 

"Yes'm,  I  sure  did.  He  started  it,"  sturdily 
answered  Joe. 

"Good  gracious,  I  hope  you  didn't  talk  sassy 
to  him,  did  you,  son?"  anxiously  asked  his 
father,  who  had  entered  the  room  in  time  to 
hear  part  of  the  conversation. 

"Why,  of  course  not,  but  we  argued  just  the 
same.  And  he  asked  me  to  stay  to  lunch  with 
him,  and  I  stayed." 

"Gr-eat  Scott!"  whistled  Mr.  Weston. 

"How  did  he  come  to  do  that,  Joe?"  inquired 
his  mother. 

103 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Well,"  laughed  Joe,  "the  rest  of  the  boys — 
champions  of  eleven  other  states,  you  know — 
won  the  trip  as  I  did.  They  went  on  with  one 
of  the  heads  of  the  Department  of  Agriculture 
to  take  a  boat-ride  on  the  Potomac  River.  We 
had  just  been  looking  over  the  Capitol.  Our 
Senator  was  mighty  nice  to  me,  too — " 

"I  know  him,"  said  Mr.  Weston,  proudly. 

"Yes,  sir,  he  told  me  to  give  you  his  regards, 
and  he's  going  to  send  ma  some  flowers  and 
bulbs  from  the  Department.  Well,  as  I  was 
saying,  the  crowd  was  leaving  the  Capitol,  and 
I  said  I'd  rather  stay  and  watch  'em  make  laws. 
The  Senator  said  he'd  look  after  me  and  see  I 
got  back  to  the  hotel  all  right.  That  was  about 
half  past  ten  in  the  morning — the  Senate  and 
House  don't  meet  until  noon." 

"That  was  powerful  clever  of  him,"  asserted 
Mr.  Weston. 

"So  we  were  walking  through  the  rotunda, 
right  under  the  big  dome  you  see  in  the  pictures, 
when  we  met  another  Senator.  He  came  up 
and  said: 

"'Have  you  seen  the  President  about  that 
matter  you  promised  to  take  up  with  him?'  And 
our  Senator  said,  'No,  by  George,  I  forgot  it, 
but  I'll  go  right  on  to  the  White  House  now  and 
see  him." 

"So  we  went  down  the  long  flight  of  steps 
104 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

you  see  in  the  pictures  sometimes.  Really, 
they're  at  the  back  of  the  Capitol ;  it  faces  the 
other  way.  Down  at  the  head  of  Pennsylvania 
Avenue  there  were  a  lot  of  cabs  and  automo- 
biles standing.' ' 

"  Did  you  ride  in  one  of  them  autos?"  inquired 
Annie,  hopefully. 

"Yes,  but  not  right  then. 

"'Ride  or  walk,  Joe?'  asked  the  Senator. 

"Td  rather  walk,'  I  told  him. 

"'Me,  too,'  says  the  Senator.  'I  ate  too 
many  buckwheat  cakes  for  breakfast  and  I  need 
the  exercise/  and  he  laughed,  and  we  struck  out 
down  the  avenue. 

"He  stopped  in  a  jewelry  store  to  get  his 
watch  he  left  there  to  be  fixed,  and  then  he  picked 
out  a  pair  of  cuff  buttons  and  pays  four  dollars 
for  them,  and  hands  'em  to  me. 

"'Take  those  with  my  compliments,  Joe,  as 
a  souvenir.  They  are  historical.  They  are  made 
out  of  steel  from  the  battle-ship  Maine  that  was 
blown  up  in  Havana  harbor,  and  which  caused 
the  war  with  Spain.' " 

"Le's  see  'em?"  excitedly  asked  Mr.  Weston. 
Joe  exhibited  the  blue-steel  burnished  buttons, 
which  he  was  wearing.  "You  sure  ought  to  be 
proud  of  'em.  Are  they  actually  made  out  of 
part  of  the  Maine?" 

"Yes,  sir;  no  doubt  about  it,  the  Senator  said. 
105 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

There  was  a  certificate  there  from  the  Navy 
Department  showing  that  some  of  the  steel  from 
the  ship  had  been  sold  the  jeweler,  and  another 
certificate  from  the  manufacturer  that  the  but- 
tons were  made  of  that  identical  steel,  so  I'm 
sure  they're  genuine." 

"It's  a  present  worth  having !"  said  Mrs. 
Weston.     "  They're  real  handsome,  too." 

''Then  we  walked  on  up  the  avenue,  and  the 
Senator  showed  me  a  lot  of  interesting  things. 
Then  when  we  got  to  the  end  of  the  avenue 
we  turned  to  the  right  and  passed  the  beautiful 
Treasury  Department  building.  It  has  rows  of 
big  stone  pillars  around  it — mighty  handsome. 
Then  right  on  the  other  side  of  it  was  the 
White  House." 

"An'  you  went  right  in  where  the  President 
lives?"  inquired  Annie,  in  awed  tones. 

"Sure.  The  Senator  sent  his  card  in,  and  we 
waited  in  a  big  waiting-room  full  of  people. 
There  were  some  other  Senators  there  before  us, 
and  after  they  had  gone  in  our  turn  came. 
Senators  are  always  let  in  ahead  of  other 
folks." 

"What's  that  for?"  inquired  Mr.  Weston. 

"I  asked,  and  it's  because  they  are  supposed  to 
be  there  on  public  business;  and,  then,  a  Senator 
is  a  very  high  officer  in  Washington.  And  after 
a  while  the  man  at  the  door  motioned  to  us 

106 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

and  we  went  out  of  the  reception-room  into  the 
office  of  the  President." 

"  Didn't  it  make  you  feel  sort  of  scared?" 
asked  Mrs.  Weston,  apprehensively. 

"Well,"  laughed  Joe,  "111  tell  the  truth;  I 
did  feel  kind  of  shaky,  because  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do,  but  that  passed  in  a  minute  just 
as  soon  as  the  President  spoke. 

"'Why,  howdy,  Senator!  Glad  to  see  you! 
What  can  I  do  for  you  to-day?  And  is  that 
your  chap?'  he  says,  looking  at  me. 

"'In  a  way  he  is,'  said  the  Senator.  'He's 
one  of  my  boys  from  down  in  my  state — cham- 
pion corn -raiser  —  won  a  trip  to  Washington. 
Mr.  President,  this  is  Joe  Weston!1 

"'Mighty  glad  to  meet  you,  Joe,'  says  the 
President,  just  as  friendly  as  anything,  shaking 
hands  with  me.  'Always  glad  to  meet  anybody 
who  has  done  something  worth  while.  And  how 
much  corn  did  you  raise?' 

"I  told  him. 

" '  What  ?'  he  sort  of  yells.  '  You  don't  mean  to 
tell  me  you  raised  that  much  corn  on  an  acre 
of  land?'  And  he  looked  at  me  like  he  thought 
I  must  be  mistaken.  So  I  pulled  my  certificate 
out  of  my  pocket  and  hands  it  to  him. 

'"Yes,  sir,  I  did.  Read  that!'  I  says,  and 
he  read  it  through. 

"'Well,  that  is  certainly  fine!'  he  said,  and 
107 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

slapped  me  on  the  back.     '  It's  really  wonderful. 
How'd  you  do  it?' 

" '  Followed  the  instructions  of  the  Department 
of  Agriculture  from  right  here  in  Washington — 
the  instructions  they  send  out  to  the  Boys' 
Corn  Clubs/ 

"'Do  you  know,  Senator,  I  have  rather  lost 
sight  of  that  branch  of  the  work?'  said  the 
President.  'I  must  find  out  some  more  about 
it.  Now,  let's  get  through  with  your  business, 
and  suppose  you  leave  Joe  here  to  take  lunch 
with  me,  and  we  can  talk?  I'll  see  he  gets  back 
to  the  hotel  all  right.     It's  about  twelve  now.' 

" '  Why,  that's  agreeable,  if  Joe  wants  to  stay. 
How  about  it?'  said  the  Senator  to  me. 

"'Wish  you  would,  Joe,  and  tell  me  some- 
thing more  about  this  Corn  Club  work,'  said  the 
President. 

"'That  suits  me  all  right,  and  thank  you,  sir, 
for  asking  me,'  I  said.  So  the  President  and  the 
Senator  talked  about  some  bill  or  other,  and 
after  a  while  the  Senator  told  me  good-by  and 
said  he'd  see  me  again  before  I  left  for  home. 
Then  the  President  pushed  a  button  on  his  desk, 
and  the  doorkeeper  came  in. 

"'I  will  see  nobody  else  this  morning,'  said 
the  President.  'And  send  word  to  the  house- 
keeper to  have  lunch  for  two  up  here,  right 
away.' " 

108 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

11  Well,  I  do  know!"  remarked  Mr.  Weston,  in 
awed  tones,  taking  a  long  breath. 

"He  seemed  to  have  acted  just  like  folks," 
commented  Joe's  mother. 

"Yes'm,  and  one  of  the  nicest  gentlemen  I 
ever  saw.  I  forgot  all  about  his  being  President 
or  anything  else  except  just  a  fine,  friendly  man. 
He  made  me  feel  right  at  home.  So  we  got  to 
talking  about  raising  corn,  and  I  told  him  how 
I  did  it—" 

"You  said  somethin'  about  argufyin'  with 
him?"  inquired  Mr.  Weston,  anxiously. 

"I'm  coming  to  that.  And  when  I  was  telling 
about  cultivating  the  corn  he  asked  me  what 
I  did  with  the  'suckers'  thrown  out  at  the  base 
of  the  stalk. 

"'Did  nothing  with  'em,'  I  said. 

"'You  ought  to  have  pulled  'em  off,'  says  the 
President. 

"  'No,  sir;  it  would  have  been  a  waste  of  time 
and  work,'  says  I. 

" '  That's  not  accordin'  to  reason,'  he  answered, 
mighty  positive.  'If  you  pulled  those  suckers 
off,  the  strength  they  take  goes  into  the  main 
stalk  and  helps  mature  the  corn.' 

"'That's  what  I  thought  about  it,  too,'  I 
said,  'but  I  found  out  that  it  really  didn't 
matter.' 

" '  You  must  be  mistaken,'  said  the  President. 
109 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"'I  believe  I'm  right/  I  told  him. 

"'How  are  we  going  to  settle  it?'  he  asks, 
like  he  had  me. 

"Til  leave  it  to  the  head  of  the  Bureau  of 
Plant  Industry  of  the  Department  of  Agricul- 
ture/ I  said.  I  knew  I  had  him,  for  I  had  seen 
one  of  the  bulletins  from  the  Department  that 
tests  had  shown  that  it  really  did  not  make  any 
difference  about  the  suckers. 

"'That's  fair;  he  ought  to  know.  I'll  just 
call  him  on  the  'phone  and  see  what  he  says/ 
The  President  called  him  up,  and,  sure  enough, 
he  told  Mr.  President  just  what  I  said,  that  it 
was  not  worth  the  time  and  trouble  to  take  the 
suckers  off. 

"'Well,  you  win!'  says  the  President,  turning 
to  me  and  grinning  in  a  mighty  good  humor." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  pa?"  won- 
dered Mrs.  Weston.  "What  else  did  he  say, 
Joe?" 

"He  said  it  had  taught  him  a  lesson — not  to 
be  so  sure  he  knew  anything  until  he  knew  he 
knew  it." 

Annie  was  growing  restive  under  the  talk,  and 
was  concerned  with  more  material  things. 

"  Where'd  you  and  him  go  to  eat  your  lunch — 
out  under  the  trees?  An'  why  didn't  you  have 
some  dinner  'stid  of  just  a  lunch,  an'  what  did 
you  have  to  eat?" 

no 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"It  really  was  what  we  call  dinner,  sis," 
laughed  Joe,  "but  not  quite  so  much  of  it. 
Those  very  busy  people  up  there  eat  a  snack  in 
the  middle  of  the  day  and  call  it  a  luncheon, 
and  then  at  six  o'clock,  or  along  that  time,  they 
have  what  they  call  dinner — at  the  time  we  eat 
supper." 

"I  think  it's  very  silly  to  change  things  up  so. 
But  tell  me  what  do  Presidents  eat — cake  and 
pie  and  ice-cream,"  persisted  Annie,  "like  kings 
do?" 

"I  don't  know  what  kings  eat,  sis,  and  I 
don't  know  what  Presidents  eat  all  the  time, 
but  I  know  for  lunch  we  had  some  mighty  good 
potato-soup,  and  some  fine  roast  beef  and  mashed 
potatoes,  and  a  dish  of  spinach  and  poached 
egg  on  it,  and  a  glass  of  rich  cream,  and  a  big 
slab  of  apple-pie." 

"How  was  the  pie?"  anxiously  inquired  Mrs. 
Weston. 

"It  was  good  pie,"  judicially  admitted  Joe, 
"but  I  don't  think  it  was  as  good  as  you  make, 
ma. 

She  gave  him  a  hug,  and  her  face  was  radiant 
the  rest  of  the  day.  It  was  a  comforting  thought 
to  her  the  balance  of  her  years  to  think  that  she 
could  make  better  apple-pie  than  the  President 
of  the  United  States  had  set  before  him. 

"Anything  else?"  persisted  Annie, 
in 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"No,  except  the  President  said  he  liked  turnip 
greens!" 

"And  when  was  it  he  told  you  that  about 
the  farmer?"  asked  Mr.  Weston. 

"Just  before  he  sent  one  of  the  doorkeepers 
back  to  the  hotel  with  me.  And  he  gave  me  a 
picture  of  himself  with  his  name  written  on  it — 
I  saw  him  write  it.  And  the  last  thing  he  said 
to  me  was,  standing  there,  with  my  hand  in  his 
and  his  other  hand  on  my  shoulder: 

"'Joe,'  says  he,  'just  remember  this,  that  a 
good  farmer,  a  real  good  farmer  and  an  honest 
man,  is  just  as  useful  and  occupies  just  as  high 
a  place  in  this  country  as  President,  Senator,  or 
Congressman.  Don't  forget  that.  Be  proud  of 
the  fact  that  you  are  a  farmer  if  you  are  a  good 
one.'" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

JOE  returned  from  Washington  on  Friday. 
Sunday  afternoon  he  was  scrambling  around 
in  the  closets  and  on  the  shelves  of  the  attic 
room,  hauling  out  old  school-books  and  dusting 
them  off. 

11  Whatever  are  you  up  to,  Joe?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Weston. 

"  Just  trying  to  get  some  books  together.  I'm 
going  to  start  to  school  again  to-morrow.' ' 

"But  you  studied  those  books  last  year — " 

"Yes'm,  and  I  don't  know  'em,  either.  I'm 
going  right  back  and  make  it  up." 

"Won't  that  put  you  in  classes  with  a  lot  of 
boys  much  younger  than  you  are?" 

"I  guess  it  will,  ma,  and  I  know  the  fellows 
will  rag  me  something  fierce  about  it,  and  maybe 
I'll  have  to  fight  about  it,  but  right  there  I'm 
going  because  I  belong  there." 

"I  kind  of  hate  for  you  to  do  it,"  mused  his 
mother.  "You  ought  to  be  able  to  go  in  higher 
classes  than  that?" 

"Oh,  I  reckon  I  could  keep  up,  but  I'm  trying 
to  be  honest  with  myself.     I  don't  know  my 

8  113 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

arithmetic,  and  I  don't  know  grammar,  and  I 
don't  know  how  to  spell.  I  didn't  study  like 
I  ought  to  have  done  when  I  was  there  before, 
so  it's  for  my  own  good." 

"What  started  you  on  such  an  idea,  Joe?" 

"The  President.  When  he  told  me  good-by 
he  looked  me  right  in  the  eyes  and  said,  'What- 
ever happens,  always  be  honest  and  absolutely 
square  with  yourself.'  So  I  got  to  thinking 
about  it.  I  hadn't  been  honest  with  myself 
the  last  year  I  was  in  school  because  I  skimmed, 
and  it  wasn't  honest  to  the  teacher,  either.  I'm 
going  back  and  make  it  good." 

It  took  a  good  deal  of  courage  to  go  to  the 
teacher  and  be  placed  in  classes  with  boys  three 
and  four  years  younger  than  himself,  but  Joe 
took  his  medicine  like  a  man.  Of  course,  he  was 
guyed,  but  he  took  it  good-humoredly. 

"That's  all  right.  Go  ahead,  you  fellows,  and 
have  all  the  fun  out  of  it  you  can — I'm  paying 
for  not  studying.  If  you'd  tell  the  truth  about 
it,  a  lot  of  you  would  be  right  in  this  class  with 
me.  Go  ahead — I've  got  it  coming  to  me,  and 
it  don't  make  me  mad!" 

He  grinned  amiably  at  their  chaffing,  and  when 
the  boys  found  he  would  not  lose  his  temper 
over  it,  they  let  him  alone. 

The  second  week  after  he  started  to  school 
the  County  Superintendent  of  Education  came 

114 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

over  to  start  the  Boys'  Corn  Club  again  and  to 
get  ready  for  the  approaching  season.  Some- 
how, there  seemed  to  be  an  utter  lack  of  enthusi- 
asm among  the  boys.  They  did  not  applaud 
his  utterances,  and  only  a  few  of  them  went 
forward  and  signed  the  roll. 

"What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with  them?" 
whispered  the  superintendent  to  the  teacher, 
consternation  written  all  over  his  countenance. 

"Goodness  knows,  but  it  is  something;  that 
is  certain/ '  she  replied,  in  an  undertone. 

Joe  Weston  instinctively  felt  that  he  was  in 
some  way  concerned  in  the  refusal  of  the  boys 
to  join.  He  caught  several  of  them  looking  at 
him  out  of  the  corners  of  their  eyes  and  shifting 
their  glances  when  he  looked  in  their  direction. 

Then  at  recess  he  overheard  a  group  of  the 
boys  talking.  They  did  not  know  he  was  near. 
"Reddy"  Haywood  was  holding  forth,  and  the 
rest  of  them  nodded  approvingly. 

"Ain't  no  use  our  goin'  in  that  Corn  Club — 
Joe  Weston's  goin'  in.  He's  already  won  the 
state  championship  and  knows  how.  What 
chance  we  got?  No  more'n  a  rabbit  in  a  burn- 
ing sedge  field.    I  just  ain't  goin'  in,  that's  what !" 

"Me,  too!    Me,  too!"  echoed  several  others. 

The  whole  situation  was  clear  now.  Joe  Wes- 
ton went  to  the  principal  and  the  County  Super- 
intendent. 

115 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"I've  found  out  what's  the  matter  with  'em," 
he  said.  "When  we  take  in,  if  you'll  let  me, 
I  think  maybe  I  can  fix  things." 

Accordingly,  after  the  bell  rang  and  the  school 
was  seated  Joe  rose  in  his  seat. 

"Mr.  Superintendent,  I  want  to  say  a  few 
words,  if  you  please,"  he  said,  in  a  self-possessed 
manner.  The  superintendent  nodded  affirma- 
tively and  looked  at  the  principal. 

"The  school  will  pay  attention  to  Joe  Wes- 
ton," said  the  teacher,  rapping  for  order. 

"Mr.  Principal,  I  find  the  boys  of  the  school 
don't  want  to  go  in  this  Corn  Club  because  they 
think  I  am  going  in,  and  because  I  have  made  a 
state  record  they  think  they  will  have  no  chance 
with  me  in  it. 

"I  just  want  to  say  this,  that  I  am  going  in 
the  club,  but  I  won't  compete  for  the  county 
prizes.  And  I  won't  compete  for  any  of  the 
state  prizes  if  any  of  the  boys  from  this  county 
come  near  enough  to  my  record  this  coming 
year  to  make  it  a  competition  between  me  and 
them.     Is  that  fair  enough?" 

In  answer  a  storm  of  applause  greeted  the 
words.     Joe  smiled  with  pleasure. 

"I'm  going  in  this  club  this  year  to  benefit 
myself  and  try  to  learn  something  more.  I 
raised  a  big  crop  of  corn  and  won  the  state  prize 
on  amount,  but  that  ain't  the  main  thing.     It 

n6 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

is  to  learn  how  to  raise  a  big  crop  at  small  cost. 
That  is  the  business  end  of  it.  If  it  costs  you 
in  fertilizer  and  labor  about  what  your  corn  is 
worth  to  make  it,  then  you've  had  your  work 
for  nothing:  it  ain't  a  bit  better  than  raising 
a  small  crop  at  little  or  no  cost  on  poor  land. 

"Now  I  want  to  say  this,  that  if  there's  any 
boy  in  this  club  who  wants  the  benefit  of  what 
I've  learned  I'll  gladly  help  him  in  every  way 
I  can.  You  fellows  go  on  in,  and  if  you  can  win, 
do  it,  and  I'll  be  glad  to  see  it.  I'm  working  on 
other  lines  now;  but,  at  any  rate,  I  don't  think 
it  just  fair  to  you  boys  to  compete  against  you, 
and  I  ain't  going  to  do  it.  That's  all  I've  got  to 
say." 

There  was  another  silence  for  a  moment  after 
Joe  sat  down,  and  the  applause  broke  forth 
afresh. 

"I  think  Joe  has  acted  admirably  and  fairly," 
said  the  County  Superintendent.  "You  boys 
have  seen  what  he  has  done  against  more  odds 
than  any  one  of  you  will  ever  be  called  on  to 
face.  First,  he  has  satisfied  himself  that  he  can 
make  the  ground  produce  largely,  and  now  he's 
figuring  on  how  to  do  so  at  the  least  cost.  That 
is  the  lesson  we  want  you  to  learn.  Now  the 
books  are  open.    Who  else  will  join?" 

Every  boy  in  the  school  marched  forward  and 
enrolled  for  the  contest. 

117 


JOE,  THE   BOOK    FARMER 

Joe  went  ahead  with  his  preparations  on  his 
own  acre,  the  same  land  that  he  had  used  the 
last  year.  He  had  sowed  it  down  in  rye  as  a 
winter  cover-crop,  and  to  prevent  washing  of  the 
soil,  and  at  the  same  time  to  afford  a  winter 
pasture  for  the  stock  and  pigs.  The  rye  was 
to  be  turned  under  when  the  ground  was  first 
broken  in  the  spring.  Mr.  Weston  had  planted 
six  acres  in  oats,  but  proposed  to  let  them  ma- 
ture, after  having  been  grazed  by  the  stock 
during  the  winter. 

In  his  spare  time  Joe  now  hauled  leaves,  but 
since  there  was  stock  on  the  place,  the  leaves 
were  not  applied  direct  to  the  land.  The  cows 
and  horses  were  bedded  in  the  leaves,  and  a 
covered  pen  was  built  back  of  the  barn  into 
which  the  leaves  and  bedding  from  the  stalls 
were  thrown  each  day. 

"  Ain't  no  use  in  buildin'  a  fertilize'-pen,  Joe," 
objected  his  father,  when  the  subject  was  first 
mentioned.  "Just  pitch  it  out  there  under 
the  eaves,  an'  the  rain  and  water  '11  help 
rot  it." 

"Yes,  and  over  half  its  value  will  be  running 
off  in  waste  water  toward  the  creek/ '  said  Joe. 
"The  water  will  take  most  of  the  ammonia  and 
a  heap  of  the  nitrogen  and  phosphoric  acid  and 
such  out  of  it.  No,  le's  keep  it  dry  until  we  are 
ready  to  apply  it ;  then  it  will  not  lose  its  strength. 

118 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

There's  a  government  bulletin  on  the  care  of 
barn-yard  fertilizer.     Haven't  you  read  It?" 

"No,  I  ain't  had  time  yet;  I've  got  so  much 
to  learn  an'  so  much  to  read.  An'  you  know 
readin'  is  mighty  hard  work  for  me.  I  ain't 
had  as  much  schoolin'  in  all  my  life  as  you've 
had  a'ready." 

Joe  felt  sorry  for  his  father,  who. seemed  so 
keenly  conscious  of  late  regarding  his  own 
limitations.     Joe  sought  to  make  him  feel  easier. 

"Well,  it  isn't  strange  you  haven't  read  it — 
there  are  so  many  of  them — but  I  have,  and 
that's  what  it  says  about  taking  care  of  the 
fertilizer.  Folks  lose  from  twenty-five  to  sixty 
per  cent,  of  the  value  letting  it  stay  out  in  the 
weather." 

"All  right,  then;  let's  fix  a  shelter  for  it." 

"And  I'll  tell  you  what,  pa,"  suggested  Joe. 
"Let's  go  through  that  pile  of  bulletins  and 
pick  out  the  ones  that  will  help  us  right  now: 
read  some  one  every  night.  While  I  study  my 
lessons  you  read  as  much  as  you  can  on  the 
bulletin.  Then  when  I  get  through  with  the 
school-books  I'll  read  aloud  what  you've  been 
reading,  and  we'll  talk  about  it  as  we  go  along?" 

"That's  just  a  fine  idee!" 

"We'll  sort  out  that  pile  to-night  and  make 
a  start." 

Accordingly,  after  supper  Joe  and  his  father 
119 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

went  through  the  armful  of  government  bulletins 
and  picked  out  about  a  dozen  to  form  their  course 
of  study  until  summer.  After  they  had  finished 
the  one  on  barn-yard  fertilizers  they  took  two 
evenings  to  review  and  discuss  it. 

''Tell  you  what,  Joe,"  said  Mr.  Weston,  the 
second  evening,  "that  there  bulletin  has  given 
me  lots  of  idees.  Now,  we  all  know  one  of  the 
biggest  expenses  in  farmin'  right  is  this  here 
commercial  fertilizer.  Seems  to  me  if  we  could 
find  somethin'  to  take  its  place  we  could  save 
a  whole  lot." 

" That's  just  the  thing  we  want  to  do:  instead 
of  paying  the  fertilizer-factories  for  it,  do  our 
own  manufacturing." 

"Sure,  an'  make  the  profit  ourselves.  You 
know  and  I  know  the  commercial  fertilizer  is 
gone  in  a  year.  Maybe  a  little  of  the  phosphate 
stays  in  the  soil  for  the  next  year,  but  not 
enough  to  do  any  good.  Got  to  buy  again 
next  year." 

"That's  so." 

"Now  I  see  by  this  here  bulletin  we've  just 
read  that  an  experiment  showed  that  seven 
years  after  a  piece  of  soil  was  treated  with  barn- 
yard fertilizer  it  showed  effects  of  the  stuff,  as 
against  a  piece  of  the  same  land  treated  with 
commercial  fertilizer.  That  showed  no  trace 
hardly  after  the  second  year." 

12Q 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Looks  like  the  thing  to  do  is  to  figure  the 
way  to  get  more  barn-yard  stuff  and  build  the 
land  up  so  it  will  stay  built,"  commented 
Joe. 

"  That's  just  what  I  mean,  son.  Stop  the 
outgo  for  the  commercial  chemical  stuff." 

"How  are  we  going  to  do  it?" 

"It's  goin'  to  be  slow  work.  In  the  first 
place,  we've  got  to  have  more  cattle,  an'  we've 
got  practically  no  money  now.  But  we  can  do 
this:  winter  is  on,  an'  folks  will  sell  cattle  cheap 
rather  than  feed  'em.  We  ought  to  be  able  to 
pick  up  a  dozen  or  so  half -starved  little  calves 
for  next  to  nothing.  We  can  get  credit  at  the 
bank  for  a  hundred  dollars,  an'  I  think  we  better 
put  it  in  calves." 

"Say!"  observed  Joe,  "that's  a  perfectly 
fine  scheme.  I  know  where  I  can  buy  two 
five  -  months  -  old  calves  now  for  two  dollars 
apiece!" 

"Ah,  I'll  start  to-morrow  to  bust  up  six  or 
seven  acres  more  an'  put  in  more  oats;  it's 
late,  I  know,  but  they  will  make  all  right. 
That  will  give  winter  grazing  and  stuff  to  feed 
on,  and  straw  to  bed  'em  in  and  turn  under 
later.  We  can  pull  them  calves  through  without 
much  cost  until  grass  comes  out ;  the  next  sum- 
mer put  every  foot  of  ground  we  can  in  pea- 
vine  hay." 

J2i 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"  Pease  are  fine  for  the  land — collect  nitrogen 
from  the  air  and  store  it  on  the  roots  in  those 
little  bumps — 'nodules'  the  book  calls  them," 
said  Joe.  ''Then  the  leaves  that  fall  from  the 
pea-vines  help  put  humus  in  the  land  along 
with  the  decaying  roots." 

"So,  with  the  oats  and  pea- vine  hay  and  fod- 
der we  will  be  well  fixed  to  take  a  big  herd  of 
cattle  through  next  winter — and  what  nubbin 
corn  we  raise,"  said  Mr.  Weston.  "Well  keep 
the  cattle  up  at  night,  bed  'em  in  leaves  an* 
straw,  compost  it,  and  we've  got  a  good  start 
on  fertilizer.  In  two  years  more  we  ought  to 
have  those  calves  in  prime  fix  for  beef  cattle  and 
get  fifty  dollars  apiece  for  'em." 

"That  looks  mighty  fine,"  assented  Joe. 
"Besides,  the  oats  being  grazed  by  the  cattle 
will  help  the  oats,  and  the  land  will  get  the  benefit 
of  what  fertilizer  is  dropped  there  then,  and  that 
will  amount  to  a  heap." 

"Then,"  continued  Mr.  Weston,  "I  figure  that 
this  next  fall,  instead  of  selling  our  cotton-seed, 
we  ought  to  swap  it  to  the  oil-mill  for  cotton-seed 
meal  and  hulls.  There's  a  heap  of  fattening 
stuff  in  the  meal,  and  it  forms  about  a  fourth 
of  these  commercial  fertilizers,  and  furnishes 
nitrogen.  Mix  the  meal  and  hulls  and  feed 
it  to  our  cattle.  We  get  the  benefit  of 
the   fattening   for   the   beeves   an'   then   have 

122 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

the  rest  of  it  with  the  nitrogen  in  it  for  the 
land." 

"Say,  you  were  late  getting  started,  but  you 
sure  are  farming  like  an  up-to-date  farmer 
now!"  enthused  Joe. 

"Tryin'  to  make  up  for  lost  time,  son.  We'll 
have  somethin'  yet,  you  an*  I.  Well,  as  I  was 
savin* ,  in  this  scheme  we  practically  get  our 
beef  cattle  for  nothing,  get  the  benefit  of  per- 
manent fertilizer  for  the  land,  and  ought  to 
make  a  profit  of  sixty  or  seventy-five  per  cent, 
on  each  animal." 

"It  looks  good,"  judicially  admitted  Joe. 

"It  is  good,  and  it's  horse  sense,  too.  Why, 
if  we  just  broke  even  on  handling  the  cattle  it 
would  pay  us,  for  the  good  we  will  get  in  fertilizer 
for  the  land  and  to  stop  the  outgo  for  chemical 
stuff  each  year.  But  we'll  make  money  on 
'em,  big  money." 

"If  we  keep  planting  pease,  and  filling  the 
ground  with  the  roots  full  of  nitrogen,  and 
planting  cover-crops  in  winter  and  grazing  it, 
and  turning  under  stubble,  and  putting  rotted 
leaves  and  straw  and  corn-stalks  and  stable 
cleanings  mixed  in  this  land,  in  five  years  we'll 
have  the  richest  place  in  the  county,"  continued 
Mr.  Weston. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  go  hunting  for  scrubby, 
half -starved  calves,"  said  Joe.     "I'll  ask  all  the 

123 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

boys  at  school  if  they  have  any  to  sell  for  cash, 
and  you  go  on  and  get  the  money  from  the 
bank." 

"All  right,  and  first  thing  we  know  we'll 
have  a  fertilizer-factory  here  that  will  be  paying 
us  biggest  sort  of  profits!"  said  Mr.  Weston. 


CHAPTER  XV 

JOE  was  on  his  way  to  school  a  few  days 
later  when  he  saw  a  boy  about  his  own 
age  approaching  him  on  a  nice  bay  pony.  The 
boy  was  evidently  a  city  youth,  and,  seeing  Joe, 
he  reined  up. 

"  Hello !"  he  remarked,  in  a  friendly  tone. 
He  was  a  nice,  manly-looking  boy,  but  very 
thin  and  pale. 

"Hello,  yourself !"  answered  Joe,  stopping  and 
sizing  him  up.  Joe  liked  his  looks,  but  thought 
he  was  remarkably  puny  in  appearance. 

"You're  Joe  Weston,  the  champion  corn- 
grower,  aren't  you?"  he  said.  Joe  nodded.  "I 
saw  your  picture  in  the  papers,  but  I  thought 
you  were  a  heap  bigger  than  you  are.  I've 
wanted  to  meet  you." 
■    "Much  obliged,"  said  Joe.     "Who  are  you?" 

"Excuse  me  for  not  telling.  I'm  Tom  Ralston. 
Father  bought  that  big  old  plantation  of  Major 
Dean's  down  the  road  about  two  miles.  We've 
only  been  here  a  couple  of  weeks." 

"Where  you  from?" 

"  Up  North.    I'm  just  over  a  spell  of  typhoid, 

125 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

and  awfully  weak.  Then,  mother  is  not  strong, 
and  we  wanted  to  get  away  from  the  hard 
winters  up  there,  so  father  bought  this  old  house 
and  plantation  for  a  winter  home.  He  can't 
stay  here  all  the  time,  but  he  will  come  down 
and  hunt  and  fish  whenever  he  can  get  off. 
He's  about  worn  himself  out  working.  Owns 
a  big  factory." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you-all  have  moved  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  hope  you'll  like  it.  Ever 
lived  in  the  country  before?" 

"Never  have,  but  I  think  it's  fine,  what  I  have 
seen  of  it!"  said  Tom,  with  enthusiasm. 

"Come  over  and  see  me  sometime.  It's 
easier  for  you  to  come  to  see  me  than  for  me 
to  go  to  your  house;  you've  got  a  pony,  and 
I  have  to  froof  it  or  ride  one  of  the  work- 
horses." 

"Sure  will,  and  thank  you  for  asking  me.  It's 
kind  of  lonely  until  one  gets  acquainted.  How 
far  you  going?" 

"'Bout  a  mile,  to  the  school-house." 

"Hop  up  behind  me  and  I'll  give  you  a  lift. 
This  pony  rides  as  easy  as  a  rocking-chair  rocks. 
Come  on!"  He  extended  his  hand.  Joe  placed 
one  foot  in  the  stirrup  and  vaulted  up  behind 
him.  The  pony  was  indeed  a  fine  one.  By 
the  time  they  reached  the  school-house  the  two 
boys  were  well  started  on  a  friendship.    Several 

126 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

of  the  boys  at  the  school  crowded  about  as  they 
rode  up. 

"Say,  fellers !"  called  Joe.  "This  is  Tom 
Ralston.  His  folks  bought  the  old  Dean  place, 
and  just  moved  in.  He's  been  mighty  sick  with 
fever  an'  ain't  strong  yet,  but  he  wants  to  get 
acquainted.  When  you  get  a  chance  go  over 
and  see  him." 

"Wish  you  would,"  added  Tom. 

"Some  of  the  gang  will  be  over  Saturday, 
sure,"  announced  Reddy  Haywood.  Pleased  to 
meet  you.  Won't  you  'light,  an'  rest  your 
saddle?"  Reddy  was  doing  the  elegant  as  host 
for  the  school. 

"No;  much  obliged.  Got  to  go  to  town  and 
do  some  errands  for  mother,  but  I'll  come  over 
once  in  a  while  at  recess  and  see  you  fellows. 
Glad  to  have  met  you,  and  so  long!"  He  waved 
a  farewell,  and  the  pony  sped  down  the  road. 

The  boys  talked  him  over  and  decided  he 
1 '  would  do. ' '  Several  expressed  the  opinion  that 
he  looked  sort  of  "sissy"  and  feeble. 

"  If  you'd  been  in  bed  nine  weeks  with  typhoid, 
you'd  look  just  as  bad,"  retorted  Tom.  "An' 
if  I  hear  of  anybody  imposing  on  him  until  he 
gets  strong  enough  to  take  care  of  himself  they've 
got  me  to  whip.  He's  a  stranger  an'  a  Yankee 
boy,  and  the  decent  thing  is  for  us  all  to  act 
like  gentlemen  an'  make  him  welcome  to  our 

127 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

neighborhood  like  we'd  appreciate  his  doing  if 
we  moved  up  in  the  neck  of  the  woods  where  he 
comes  from." 

"Joe's  right !"  exclaimed  Reddy  Haywood. 
When  these  two  leaders  of  the  school  agreed  on 
a  matter  it  was  settled  in  so  far  as  that  crowd 
of  boys  was  concerned. 

In  two  weeks  Tom  had  got  strong  enough 
to  stand  considerable  exercise,  with  the  daily 
horseback  rides  and  the  fresh,  invigorating  air 
of  the  country.  He  was  very  much  possessed 
with  the  idea  of  going  on  a  possum-hunt. 

"I  can  fix  that  all  right,"  assured  Joe.  "I'll 
see  old  Uncle  Jeff  Johnson  —  that  old  darky 
who  lives  up  the  road;  he'll  take  us.  He's  got 
some  good  possum-dogs.  I'll  tell  him  to  come 
and  see  you  when  the  time  is  right,  and  we'll 
go.  Old  Uncle  Rube  that  works  here  on  this 
place  of  yours  is  a  good  hunter,  too." 

The  next  Saturday  Joe  rode  one  of  the  work- 
horses down  to  the  Ralston  place,  and  was  ex- 
plaining to  Tom  how  he  could  teach  Tom  to  be 
a  good  shot,  when  Uncle  Jeff  shuffled  around  the 
corner  of  the  house. 

1 '  Mawnin, '  young  marsters !  Hope  I  see's  you 
well  ter-day?"  he  saluted  them,  raising  his  hat. 
Uncle  Jeff  prided  himself  on  his  manners,  as  he 
belonged  to  one  of  the  prominent  families  of  the 
county  before  the  war. 

128 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Very  well,  thank  you,"  answered  the  boys. 
"  How's  your  health,  Uncle  Jeff?" 

"  Powerful  porely,  powerful  porely.  I  has  de 
rheumatiz  an'  de  dyspepsy,  but  I'm  thankful 
hit  ain'  no  wuss.  Jes'  think  of  all  de  ailments 
I  mout  have  en  ain'  got!  Dat's  whut  I'm 
thankful  fer." 

"  Hope  you  will  get  better  soon,"  assured  Tom. 

"Thanky,  suh,  en  I  hopes  yo'  injoys  de  same 
blessin'."  ' 

"How  about  the  possums?"  inquired  Joe. 

"Dat's  persackly  whut  I  come  up  hyar  ter 
see  yo'  all  erbout,  Marse  Tom.  Yo'  wuz 
a-talkin'  erbout  wantin'  ter  go  possum-huntin', 
en  ter  tas'e  er  baked  possum  wid  yam-'taters 
swimmin'  in  de  gravy  on  de  side." 

"Oh  yes,  I'd  love  to  do  both." 

"Well,  now'sde  time." 

"How  do  you  know,  Uncle  Jeff?" 

"  Oh,  I  knows.  De  moon  is  in  de  fust  quarter, 
jes'  ernuff  ter  give  er  little  light,  en  not  ernuff 
ter  th'ow  er  shadder.  Er  possum  is  er  powerful 
cowardly  varmint,  en  he  won't  feed  on  er  bright 
moonlight  night — his  own  shadder  skeers  'im. 
An'  den,  hits  sorter  nippin'  en  frosty,  en  er 
possum  ain'  fitten  ter  eat  less'n  he  be  dressed 
en  put  on  top  of  er  shingle  roof  fer  de  fros'  ter 
soak  in  'im  all  de  night." 

"Oh,  that's  all  foolishness!    Why  won't   a 

9  129 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

refrigerator  do  as  well?  The  object  is  to  get 
the  animal  heat  out  of  the  carcass,"  answered 
Tom. 

"Mout  be  foolish,  but  I  wants  ter  ax  yer  one 
queschun.  Who  started  dis  yer  business  er 
eatin'  possums — niggers,  whut  'pen's  on  de  fros', 
or  w'ite  folks,  whut  has  dese  hyar  freezeraters — 
huh?" 

"I  don't  know,"  admitted  Tom,  sheepishly. 

"In  co'se  you  dunno.  Hit  wuz  de  niggers,  en 
dat's  de  way  de  niggers  fixes  possums.  Can't 
nobody  but  er  nigger  cook  er  possum  jes'  right, 
neither.  I'd  as  soon  eat  er  dawg  ez  er  possum 
cooked  by  any  one  else,  en  onless  de  fros'  has 
soaked  in  'im." 

Joe  had  been  an  amused  listener. 

"That's  a  fact,  Tom,  about  nobody  but  a 
darky  knowing  how  to  cook  possums  just 
exactly  right.  Why,  Colonel  Ainsworth,  who 
lived  down  the  river  from  here,  got  to  specu- 
lating in  cotton  and  made  a  whole  lot  of  money. 
He  undertook  to  put  on  a  great  deal  of  style 
then — had  his  house  fixed  over,  and  sent  to 
New  Orleans  and  got  a  French  chef,  and  the 
first  entertainment  was  a  big  possum  supper 
to  a  lot  of  his  cronies  from  New  Orleans.  You 
just  ought  to  hear  the  colonel  tell  about  it. 

"That  Frenchman  didn't  know  how  to  cook 
possums,  and  he  brought  them  in  roasted,  and 

130 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

swimming  in  cream  gravy  with  a  lot  of  chopped 
vegetables  all  over  'em,  a  la  something  or  other. 
The  colonel  called  him  to  the  dining-room  and 
asked  him  about  it.  Then  the  colonel  got  so 
mad  at  his  dinner  being  ruined  he  grabbed  a 
big  fat  possum  by  the  hind-legs  from  the  dish 
and  slammed  that  chef  over  the  head  with  it 
and  ran  him  down  the  front  steps  trying  to 
hit  him  again. 

"The  colonel  said  he  agreed  to  pay  that  chef 
a  hundred  dollars  a  month,  but  any  cook  who 
couldn't  fix  a  possum  right  wasn't  worth  two 
bits  a  year.  He  sent  the  chef  back  on  the  next 
boat,  and  sent  for  Aunt  Venus,  Uncle  Jeff's 
wife,  and  she  cooked  the  possums  next  day." 

Uncle  Jeff  stood  chuckling. 

"I  wuz  dar.  Yo'  jes'  oughter  seed  dat 
Frenchy  bounce  down  dem  steps.  He  wuz  fat, 
an'  de  colonel  he  wuz  fat  too,  a-makin'  a  lick 
at  'im  wid  every  jump  wid  dat  possum  all 
smeared  over  wid  cream  gravy!  He  wuz  de 
maddest  w'ite  man  I  ever  seed.  De  guests  ain' 
quit  laffin'  twell  yit,  I  reckon.  Hit  shore  wuz 
funny!" 

"All  right,  have  your  way  about  the  frost, 
Uncle  Jeff,"  conceded  Tom.  "Only  I  want  to 
help  catch  a  possum,  and  eat  it  if  it  is  cooked 
right." 

"Now,  dafs  de  way  ter  talk,    Yo'  leave  de 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

huntm'  ter  me  en  Unk'  Rube,  an'  de  cookin'  ter 
Mis'  Venus,  en  all  we  axes  yo'  boys  is  ter  furnish 
de  appertites  en  don'  founder  yo'se'fs." 

"We  can  furnish  the  appetites  all  right," 
assured  Joe. 

"Well,  right  atter  supper  yoT  all  put  on  yo' 
ole  clo'es,  en  me  en  Rube  '11  git  de  dawgs  en  de 
res'  of  de  fixin's." 

Joe  stayed  to  supper,  and  about  half  past  seven 
Uncle  Jeff  sounded  his  horn  as  he  came  up  the 
front  drive,  accompanied  by  four  yelping  dogs. 
Uncle  Rube  came  from  the  rear  of  the  house 
carrying  in  one  hand  a  light,  sharp  ax,  and  a 
lantern  in  the  other.  Slung  across  his  back  and 
that  of  Uncle  Jeff  were  bundles  of  very  rich 
"fat"  pine,  cut  in  splints  about  the  size  of  a 
finger  and  about  four  feet  long.  Each  carried 
an  empty  sack  wrapped  about  the  cord  that  held 
the  pine  splints. 

"What  are  those  pine  sticks  for?"  inquired 
Tom. 

"Torches,"  answered  Joe,  who  was  an  old 
hand  at  the  game.  "Take  four  or  five  of  those 
long  splinters,  hold  them  together  in  your  hand, 
and  light  the  other  end,  and  it  makes  the  best 
sort  of  a  light :  harder  the  wind  blows  the  brighter 
it  gets." 

"Whar  we  better  go,  Unk'  Rube?"  inquired, 
Uncle  Jeff, 

is2 


JOE,   THE    BOOK   FARMER 

"I  spec  we  stand  a  better  chance  over  in  dat 
big  ole  fiel'  by  de  creek.  Dey's  some  'simmonses 
lef  on  de  trees  yit  down  dar;  I  come  thoo  dar 
yestiddy  en  seed  whar  possums  been  feedin'. 
Den  dey's  plenty  black  haws  down  in  de  bot- 
toms, en  choke-berries  en  red  haws  too — dey's 
plenty  er  feed,  en  I  bets  we  gits  er  possum  er  so." 

"All  right,  lead  on,  le's  be  going  somewhere!" 
said  Joe,  with  impatience.  Uncle  Jeff  sounded 
his  horn;  the  dogs  leaped  joyfully  with  frantic 
yelps  and  sprang  ahead. 

The  party  cut  through  the  stable  lot,  down 
through  the  lower  pasture,  and  up  the  long  slope 
of  the  liill  where  the  old  field  lay  on  the  other 
side.  They  walked  single  file  into  the  mysteri- 
ous night,  Rube  with  the  lantern  leading,  then 
the  t>oys,  and  Uncle  Jeff  bringing  up  the  rear. 
As  they  reached  the  crest  of  the  hill  they  stood 
still  a  few  moments  while  the  dogs  ranged  in 
front  of  them.  Directly  one  of  the  dogs  broke 
into  cry,  joined  by  the  others  shortly. 

"Uh  huh!  Hear  dat?  Done  struck  er  trail 
erready!"  exclaimed  Uncle  Jeff,  in  triumph. 

"Hot  trail,  too,"  observed  Uncle  Rube. 
"We'll  git  dat  ole  possum  in  er  mighty  few 
minutes." 

The  dogs  were  making  the  silent  woods  ring 
with  their  musical  notes  as  the  two  men  whooped 
encouragement.     The  trail  led  directly  down  the 

133 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

long  slope  and  into  the  sweet-gum  flats  near 
the  creek. 

"Makin'  fer  de  swamp,"  said  Uncle  Jeff. 
There  was  a  pause  in  the  trailing  cry  of  the 
dogs,  and  the  long-drawn-out  notes  gave  place 
to  short,  excited  yelps. 

1  *  Treed,  by  granny — treed  a'ready !  Come  on !' ' 
called  Rube,  striking  a  trot  in  the  direction  of 
the  dogs  and  yelling  encouragement  to  them  so 
they  would  not  desert  the  quarry  and  take  up 
another  trail. 

Dancing  about  the  base  of  a  tall,  slim  sweet- 
gum  tree  were  the  four  dogs,  jumping  up  with 
forefeet  on  the  trunk  and  baying  in  a  frenzy  of 
excitement. 

"Dar  he — dar  he!"  cried  Jeff,  in  joy,  peering 
up  in  the  darkness.  "Way  up  in  de  top.  See 
4m?" 

Tom  could  merely  see  an  indistinct  blur 
against  the  starlight  through  the  bare  branches. 

"I  guess  so.     I  see  something!" 

"Climb  or  cut?"  inquired  Uncle  Rube,  un- 
slinging  his  bundle  of  splinters  and  making  two 
torches,  which  he  lit  and  gave  the  boys  to 
hold.  As  the  fat  pine  sputtered  and  flared  the 
light  disclosed  two  pin-points  of  green  light 
shining  from  the  dark  object. 

"Oh  yes,  doggone  yer !  Grinnin,  at  us,  is  yer? 
Thinks  we  ain'  gwine  git  yer,  does  yer?    Thinks 

134 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

yer  too  sharp  fer  us,  huh?  Gimme  dat  ax, 
Jeff.  Ill  have  dat  tree  down  'fore  yo'  c'd  git 
ter  de  fust  limb  climbin'." 

Uncle  Rube  swung  the  ax,  and  in  two  licks  it 
bit  out  an  immense  chip  from  the  tree-trunk. 
Two  more  licks  brought  another,  then  another. 

"Hole  dem  dawgs,  now,  Jeff.  We  don'  want 
no  chawed-up  possum.  Dis  tree  is  trimlin'  now; 
two  more  licks  11  bring  hit  down!"  cautioned 
Rube.  Jeff  slipped  the  twine  through  the  collars 
of  the  four  dogs.  They  were  wild  with  excite- 
ment, for  they  knew  what  was  coming. 

"Look  out,  folkses;  tree's  a-fallin' !"  sang 
Uncle  Rube;  and  with  a  crash  the  tall  stem  fell. 
Almost  at  the  same  time  Jeff  was  near  where 
the  top  struck  the  ground,  scuffling  with  the 
dogs,  who  had  got  tangled  with  his  legs,  and 
he  was  trying  to  keep  his  balance  and  handle 
the  lantern  at  the  same  time. 

"Turn  dem  dawgs  loose — turn  'em  loose, 
Jeff!  My  Lawd  ha'  mussy,  ef  we  ain'  let  dat 
ole  possum  git  erway.  Turn  'em  loose  quick, 
befo'  he  c'n  git  far  off!" 

"Well,  ain't  he  er  slick  un!"  commented  Jeff, 
as  he  finally  got  untangled  from  the  cord  holding 
the  dogs,  and  they  plunged  excitedly  into  the 
brush  of  the  tree-top,  scuffling  and  sniffing  in 
confusion.  They  lost  several  minutes  in  that 
way,  then  broke  into  full  cry  again,  trailing  up 

135 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

the  hill,  men  and  boys  following  as  best  they 
could.  It  was  hardly  five  minutes  after  they 
took  the  trail  the  second  time,  but  the  party 
had  traveled  pell  -  mell  over  a  quarter  of  a 
mile. 

"Don*  tell    me    dat    ole    possum  ain'  been 
hunted   befo'  dis!"    panted    Rube.     "He's    a- 
makin'  time  like  er  deer." 
t    The  dogs  signaled  that  they  had  treed  again. 

11  Now  we  got  'im!  I  am'  gwine  take  no  mo' 
chances — dem  dawgs  kin  have  dey  fun  en  chaw 
'im  too,  if  dey  wants.  I  don'  puppose  fer  no 
possum  ter  make  me  run  merse'f  ter  death!" 
announced  Uncle  Jeff. 

This  time  the  quarry  had  taken  to  a  tall 
blackjack  about  as  large  around  as  a  man's 
leg. 

"I'll  hole  de  dawgs,  Unk'  Jeff— hit's  yo'  time 
ter  cut  de  tree — but  I  sho  is  gwine  ter  let  dem 
puppies  in  soon's  hit  nears  de  groun'." 

"All  right;  jes'  so  yer  don'  let  'em  loose 
en  let  de  tree  fall  on  'em  —  dem's  vallyble 
dawgs." 

Tom  and  Joe  stood  holding  the  torches  so 
Uncle  Jeff  could  see  to  swing  the  ax.  Directly 
came  the  preliminary  crackling  and  swaying. 

"Ready,  now!"  warned  Uncle  Jeff,  as  he  hit 
the  final  lick  and  the  tree  majestically  swayed 
and  fell  with  a  thunderous  crash.     A  second 

136 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

before  it  hit  earth  Rube  turned  the  dogs  loose, 
and  they  were  in  the  tree-top  almost  before  it 
had  settled  from  the  rebound. 

Men  and  boys  ran  forward,  holding  their 
lights  aloft,  and  puzzled,  too,  for  there  was  the 
liveliest  scrap  going  on  in  those  interlaced 
branches  and  twigs  they  had  ever  witnessed. 
The  dogs  were  snarling  and  yelping  and  barking 
and  biting;  there  were  squeals  and  howls  and 
growls,  and  every  minute  or  so  a  dog  would  dash 
out,  flapping  a  badly  torn  ear  or  bewailing 
lustily  a  bitten  nose. 

"Why,  good  gracious  erlive,  ef  dat  am* 
er  gre't  big  ole  coon!"  yelled  Uncle  Rube. 
' 4  Whoopee !  Sic  'im,  Spot !  Go  ter  'im,  Rattler ! 
Sic  'im,  dawgs!    Sic  'im,  boys — whooee!" 

The  dogs  plunged  back  to  the  fray.  The  coon 
had  about  bested  them  in  the  thick  branches, 
but  on  the  second  attack  Br'er  Coon  made  the 
fatal  mistake  of  trying  to  get  into  the  open. 
As  he  cleared  the  tree  and  landed  in  the  grass 
there  was  another  mix-up  of  flying  claws  and 
snapping  jaws. 

The  coon  lay  flat  on  his  back  and  fought  with 
all  four  feet  and  his  teeth.  He  was  holding  off 
the  dogs  and  inflicting  more  damage  on  them 
than  they  were  on  him,  until  the  dogs  got  down 
to  team-work  and  would  rush  him  two  at  a 
time  on  different    sides.      It  was  as  pretty  a 

!37 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

team -play    as    ever    a    football    game   exhib- 
ited. 

Finally  Spot  managed  to  get  the  coon  by  the 
throat,  and  the  last  heard  of  him  was  a  shrill 
squeal  as  Spot  shut  off  his  breath  and  proceeded 
to  shake  the  life  out  of  him. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

UNCLE  Rube  rushed  in,  pried  the  dog  loose, 
and  held  the  limp  form  up  in  the  light, 
while  the  dogs,  now  they  knew  the  sharp  teeth 
and  lancelike  claws  were  powerless,  seemed 
crazy  to  get  at  him. 

"Oh,  git  down,  git  down,  plague  on  you!" 
called  Uncle  Rube  to  the  dogs.  "  Jes'  like  some 
folkses — am'  so  anxshus  ter  fight  long's  de 
fightin's  good  en  no  trouble  ter  git  took  on,  but 
w'en  hit's  all  over  en  you  knows  dey  ain'  no 
mo'  scrap  yer  gits  powerful  brave ;  an'  I  notices, 
too,  dat  de  loudes'  one  of  yer  now  is  de  one  whut 
fit  de  leas'  w'en  his  fightin'  wuz  needed  en  he 
c'd  git  ercommerdated  all  he  wanted." 

"Dat's  er  fine  pie  coon,"  remarked  Uncle  Jeff. 
"Lemme  heft  'im — uh!  Mus'  weigh  eighteen 
poun'  at  leas',  en  de  hide  ain'  chawed  a  bit." 

"Now,  Uncle  Jeff,  you  tan  that  hide  good 
so  Tom  can  take  it  back  with  him  when  he  goes 
up  North  and  he  can  have  a  real  coonskin  cap 
like  Daniel  Boone  used  to  wear — just  the  thing 
for  that  cold  country  up  there,"  suggested  Joe. 

"All  right,  Marse  Joe;  I'll  fix  de  hide  up  nice. 
139 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

How  would  yer  all  like  ter  eat  some  er  dis  yer 
ole  zip  coon?" 

"Like  it  fine.  I've  heard  you  colored  folks 
talk  about  eating  coon  meat,  but  long  as  I've 
lived  in  the  country  I  never  tasted  it.  Want  to 
try  it,  Tom?" 

"Sure,  I'll  try  anything  once,  anyway.  You 
fix  that  coonskin  up  in  good  shape  and  you'll 
not  lose  anything  on  it,  Uncle  Jeff,"  said 
Tom. 

"  Yas,  suh,  I  shill  suttin'ly  do  my  mos'  power- 
fullest  bes',"  responded  Uncle  Jeff,  in  his  grand- 
est manner. 

"Well,  hyar  we  is  nigh  onto  three  miles  from 
home,  en  nary  .a  possum  yit.  We  ain'  gwine 
home  twell  we  does  git  one,"  announced  Uncle 
Rube.  "Git  dem  no-count  dawgs  er  yourn 
whut  can't  smell  nothin'  but  braid  en  meat  out 
ter  scourin'  dese  woods,  an'  le's  see  whut  dere 
is,  Unk'  Jeff!" 

1 '  To-oo-ot  Too-oot !  To-oo-ot !  Hunt  'em  up, 
boys!  Whoopee,  dawgs!  Go  git  'em,  boys!" 
urged  Uncle  Jeff. 

The  dogs  began  circling  the  woods  in  ever- 
widening  radius,  noses  to  ground,  hunting  for  a 
scent.  "Well,  suh,  I  would  'a'  swore  on  er  stack 
er  Bibles  er  mile  high  dat  wuz  er  possum  in  dat 
firs'  tree,"  he  continued. 

"  Me,  too.  But,  Jeff,  er  possum  jes'  nacherally 
140 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

couldn'  run  as  fas'  as  ole  Br'er  Coon  dar  in  dat 
sack." 

"Yeah,  dat's  right:  coon  sure  kin  cover 
groun'.  Uh  huh!  'Busin'  my  dawgs,  wuz  yer? 
Jes'  lissen  ter  dat!"  The  dogs  had  opened  cry 
excitedly  again.  "Dat's  Spot,  en  when  Spot 
tells  me  he's  hit  er  possum  trail  I  knows  hit's 
de  trufe.  Rattler  lies  sometimes,  en  Blue  too, 
en  ole  Drum  but  seldom;  but  Spot  never  does. 
Dar  now — treed  erg'in!  Spot  says  so.  Come 
on,  hit  ain'  fo'  hunnerd  yards!" 

This  time  the  task  was  easy.  The  hard- 
pressed  possum  had  been  feeding  on  ripe  black 
haws  which  had  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  had 
taken  refuge  in  the  nearest  tree,  a  dogwood 
about  as  large  around  as  a  baseball  bat.  When 
the  party  arrived,  there  he  was,  perched  about 
fifteen  feet  above  them  and  grinning  sardonically 
at  the  excited  dogs  below. 

1 '  Aw  yes,  durn  yer,  we  got  yer  dis  time !  Come 
outer  dat  saplin'!"  called  Uncle  Jeff,  giving  it  a 
vigorous  shake.  The  possum  only  grinned  harder 
and  wrapped  his  long  tail  tight  about  the  main  stem. 
Shake  as  they  might,  they  could  not  dislodge  him. 

"Hyar,  gimme  dat  ax!"  cried  Uncle  Jeff. 
"An'  hole  dem  fool  dawgs;  dey's  almighty  keen 
on  chawin'  up  er  pore  varmint  whut  won't 
fight,  sich  as  a  possum,  en  we  don'  want  no 
fcruised  possum  to  eat." 

Hi 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Well,  didn'  de  dawgs  git  dat  coon?"  retorted 
Uncle  Rube,  resentfully,  taking  up  for  the 
dogs  he  had  only  a  little  while  since  been 
aspersing. 

"Aw,  ya-as,  atter  fo'  of  'em  pestered  an* 
worried  dat  po'  coon  twell  he  wuz  plumb  tired 
out  en  couldn'  hardly  fight — " 

"Oh,  shut  up  that  arguing  and  let's  catch  this 
possum!"  called  Joe. 

"Dat's  whut  I  says!"  virtuously  chimed 
Uncle  Jeff.  "Er  pusson  can't  make  er  re-mark 
erbout  er  lot  of  no-'count  nigger  cur-dawgs 
whut's  perclaimed  ter  be  noun' -dawgs  but  whut 
Unk'  Rube  got  ter  start  er  argymint  about  dem 
vittle-holders — ' ' 

"Well,  yer  wuz  'flectin'  on  de  dawgs  whut 
wuz  doin'  dey  bes' — " 

"I  wuzn't  doin'  nuffin'  er  de  kine — dey's  my 
dawgs  en  I  kin  say  whut  I  thinks  erbout  'em, 
can't  I?" 

"Here,  for  goodness'  sake,  give  me  that  ax!" 
called  Joe,  taking  it  from  Uncle  Jeff's  hand  and 
swinging  it  against  the  sapling.  A  few  licks 
brought  the  little  tree  to  the  ground.  The  dogs 
made  a  rush  to  get  at  the  possum,  but  the  leash 
held.  The  boys  and  Uncle  Jeff  ran  to  pick  up 
the  game. 

"Why,  he's  dead!"  exclaimed  Tom.  "The 
fall  must  have  killed  him!"    The  animal  lay 

142 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

half  curled  in  a  limp  mass,  a  set  grin  showing 
the  keen  teeth. 

"Dead  nuthin, !"  laughed  Uncle  Jeff.  " Dat's 
whut  we  calls  'possumin'.  He  does  dat  jes'  ter 
'stract  yo'  'tenshun,  den  when  yo'  lows  he's  daid 
en  don'  watch  'im  clost,  up  he  gits  en  scoots  fer 
de  tall  timber." 

"He's  nice  en  fat?"  observed  Uncle  Rube, 
judicially,  holding  the  possum  up  by  the  long, 
ratlike  tail. 

"Yeah,  en  er  big  'un,  too.  Well,  pop  'im  in 
de  sack  en  le's  go  home.  Big  coon  en  er  big 
possum  is  ernuff  fer  one  night." 

When  they  reached  the  front  steps  of  "Run- 
nemede  Plantation  "  house,  as  the  Ralston  home 
had  been  known  for  seventy  years,  Uncle  Jeff 
shouldered  the  sack  that  Uncle  Rube  had  been 
carrying. 

"Marse  Joe,  I'm  gwine  ter  tote  dis  yere  pos- 
sum en  coon  home,  en  fix  'em  so  de  fros'  will 
fall  on  'em  ter-night,  en  den  I'll  git  Mis'  Venus 
—dat's  mer  ole  lady — ter  cook  'em  es  dey  should 
be  cooked,  en  I  'speckfully  invites  yo'  en  Marse 
Tom  en  his  pa  en  anybody  else  yo'-all  wants  ter 
bring,  ter  mer  house  on  de  Pigeon  Roos'  road 
ter  supper  ter-morrer  night." 

"Colonel  Jeff,  present  our  compliments  to 
Mis'  Venus,  and  say  we  will  be  highly  honored 
to  accept,"  responded  Joe,  in  exaggerated  gravity; 

143 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

and  with  mutual  good  nights  the  party  dis- 
persed. Joe  went  in  to  spend  the  night  with 
Tom. 

At  the  breakfast-table  next  morning  Major 
Dean  was  a  guest.  He  had  come  over  the  night 
before  to  give  Mr.  Ralston  some  instructions. 
In  truth,  he  found  it  hard  to  leave  the  old 
plantation,  where  he  had  lived  most  of  his  life, 
but  he  was  alone  in  the  world,  save  for  a  married 
daughter,  who  lived  in  the  city.  Wife  and  two 
sons  had  died,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  live 
there  with  nothing  but  sorrowful  memories,  yet 
he  hated  to  get  away  from  the  haunts  of  a 
lifetime.  Now  that  Mr.  Ralston  and  his  family 
were  on  the  place,  the  major  made  many  excuses 
for  coming  around,  and  the  Ralstons  were  very 
greatly  delighted  to  have  him.  His  old  room 
was  set  apart  for  him  in  the  tremendous  house, 
and  he  was  told  to  make  himself  as  entirely  at 
home  as  if  he  still  was  master  there.  It  seemed 
to  give  him  much  happiness. 

Tom  and  Joe  told  of  the  hunt,  and  the  invita- 
tion to  Uncle  Jeff's  house  for  that  evening  to 
eat  baked  possum  and  coon.  Mr.  Ralston  was 
somewhat  embarrassed  and  puzzled  that  Joe 
should  take  it  as  such  a  matter  of  course. 

"You'll  go  with  us,  won't  you,  father?" 
inquired  Tom. 

"Well— er— I  don't  know  about  that,"  he 
144 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

responded,  dubiously.  He  cast  his  eyes  around 
at  Major  Dean. 

"Why,  certainly,  go!"  encouraged  the  major. 
"I'll  go  with  you — it  would  hurt  Uncle  Jeff's  and 
Aunt  Venus's  feelings  mightily  if  we  didn't." 
Mr.  Ralston  appeared  more  puzzled  than  ever, 
and  Mrs.  Ralston  was  thoroughly  embarrassed. 
"What  is  it,  Mr.  Ralston?  You're  worried  about 
something;  out  with  it!"  said  Major  Dean. 

"I — I  don't  just  understand  about  it,"  said 
Mr.  Ralston.  "  I  don't  want  to  come  down  here 
and  run  contrary  to  the  customs  of  the  country 
and  neighborhood,  and  I  know  you  people  of 
the  South  do  not  admit  negroes  to  social  equality, 
and  ostracize  folks  who  do  so ;  yet  here  we  are 
proposing  to  take  supper  at  a  negro's  house. 
I  can't  understand  it,  and  I'm  afraid  it  will  get 
the  neighbors  down  on  us!" 

"It  does  appear  inconsistent,  doesn't  it?" 
said  the  major,  with  a  laugh.  "Yet,  when  you 
understand,  it  is  not.  And  I  am  going  with 
you,  and  nobody  can  question  what  I  do  as 
being  proper  and  according  to  the  customs  of 
the  land." 

"That  is  another  thing  that  makes  it  harder 
to  understand,"  said  Mr.  Ralston — "the  very 
fact  that  you  are  going." 

"Well,  now,  when  we  go  down  to  Uncle 
Jeff's  cabin  the  table  is  going  to  be  set  for  us 

10  145 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

alone,  and  Jeff  and  his  wife  and  Rube  will  wait 
on  it.  After  we  have  finished  they  will  eat. 
It  is  a  compliment  to  their  cooking  that  we 
come,  and  a  bit  of  condescension  on  our  part 
they  appreciate  greatly,  but  they  never  think  of 
presuming  on  it." 

' '  Oh,  that  makes  it  somewhat  different. ' '  Mr. 
Ralston  was  plainly  relieved. 

"You  see,  Ralston,  it  is  hard  for  an  outsider 
to  understand  the  ties  that  exist  on  these  big 
plantations  where  they  have  been  in  one  family 
for  a  long  time.  My  father  owned  this  place 
forty  years;  I've  lived  all  my  life  on  it  until 
now,  and  I  am  sixty.  Uncle  Jeff  was  born  on 
the  place,  and  he  is  sixty-five;  so  was  Uncle 
Rube,  and  he  is  sixty-two.  When  I  was  five 
years  old  my  father  gave  Jeff  to  me,  and  we 
were  raised  together  as  playmates  and  comrades. 
He,  being  five  years  older  than  I,  was  responsi- 
ble for  me,  my  nurse  and  companion.  And  he 
was  faithful  to  the  trust  always.  Why,  when  I 
went  to  the  front  in  the  Confederate  army, 
Jeff  went  with  me  as  my  body-servant,  and  we 
divided  everything.  When  the  army  was  re- 
duced to  the  parched  corn  to  eat,  we  divided 
that,  too." 

"Did  Jeff  fight?"  inquired  Tom,  with  a  new 
respect  for  the  old  negro. 

"I  have  heard  that  he  did  a  bit  of  sharp- 
146 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

shooting  while  I  was  at  the  front  on  the  firing- 
line.  I  couldn't  prove  it,  but  I  do  know  that  in 
a  charge  at  Gettysburg  a  bullet  got  me — and  I 
lay  on  the  field  unconscious  for  twenty  hours, 
as  near  dead  to  be  alive  as  any  man  ever  got  to 
be. 

"Jeff  was  searching  for  me  everywhere,  and 
found  me  just  as  a  burying-party  was  about  to 
dump  me  in  a  trench  with  a  lot  of  corpses  and 
cover  me  with  dirt.  They  thought  I  was  dead, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  indicate  that  I  wasn't. 
Jeff  got  another  negro,  and  they  packed  me  two 
miles  to  a  field-hospital,  and  then  took  me  to  a 
farm-house  and  nursed  me  until  I  could  travel. 
Then  he  brought  me  home." 

"That  certainly  was  fine  of  him!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Ralston. 

"So  you  see,"  continued  the  major,  "there  s 
nothing  we  would  not  do  for  Uncle  Jeff  and 
Aunt  Venus,  his  wife.  And  when  they  were 
freed  as  slaves  they  would  not  leave,  but  stayed 
with  us.  And  during  the  war,  while  the  men 
were  at  the  front,  Uncle  Rube  stayed  here  and 
took  charge  of  the  other  slaves  and  made  a  crop 
of  cotton  and  corn  every  year — made  the  negro 
women  weave  cloth  and  knit  socks  for  the 
soldiers,  and  generally  kept  things  going." 

"It  is  astonishing  that  they  would  be  that 
faithful !"  said  Tom,  wonderingly, 

147 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"That  was  not  only  on  this  place,  Tom," 
said  Major  Dean,  "but  on  most  of  the  planta- 
tions. And  the  last  two  years  of  the  war,  when 
all  the  ports  were  blockaded  by  the  Federals  and 
we  could  not  get  any  cotton  through  the  lines 
on  blockade-runners  to  market  in  England  and 
France,  Rube  made  the  crop  anyway,  baled  it, 
and  stored  it  in  inaccessible  places  in  the  swamp, 
building  platforms  to  put  it  on  and  covering  the 
bales  with  a  thatch  of  palmetto  leaves. 

"It  certainly  came  in  handy  after  the  war, 
too,"  smiled  the  major.  "Father  had  invested 
two  hundred  thousand  dollars — every  cent  he 
had — in  Confederate  bonds.  He  was  too  old  to 
fight,  so  he  equipped  a  battalion  at  a  cost  of 
thirty  thousand  dollars  and  sent  that  as  his 
substitute." 

"He  sure  believed  in  the  cause!"  said  Mr. 
Ralston. 

"We  all  did,  or  we  would  not  have  been  willing 
to  give  our  lives  and  our  property  for  it.  So, 
when  General  Lee  surrendered  we  lost  a  hundred 
slaves,  worth  from  one  thousand  to  thirty-five 
hundred  dollars  each.  Most  of  them  scattered 
and  left,  and  when  we  had  to  make  a  start  again 
we  had  no  labor  and  no  money. 

"Well,  sir,  I  came  back  and  thought  we  were 
dead,  flat  broke.  Then  Uncle  Rube  showed  us 
where  he  had  four  hundred  bales  of  cotton 

148 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

hidden  so  the  cotton  confiscators  could  not 
find  it.  We  shipped  it  to  Liverpool,  and  got  a 
dollar  a  pound  for  it,  and  each  bale  weighed  five 
hundred  pounds.     It  put  us  on  our  feet  again." 

"Well,  I  don't  wonder  you  think  a  lot  of  those 
old  darkies!"  said  Mrs.  Ralston.  "You  ought 
to." 

"With  the  crowd  of  whites  and  blacks  that 
have  grown  up  since  the  war  most  of  the  race 
antagonisms  originate,  and  from  them  the  fric- 
tion comes.  But  our  old-time  negroes — we  take 
care  of  them,  and  are  glad  to  do  it." 

"I  am  glad  to  know  that,"  said  Tom.  "And 
I  never  knew  before  how  you  folks  down  here 
regarded  the  old-time  negroes — I  mean  just  why 
you  thought  so  much  of  them." 

"Uncle  Rube  and  Uncle  Jeff  are  simply 
typical,"  said  the  major.  "There  were  thou- 
sands like  them  all  over  the  South.  So  we  take 
care  of  them.  I  gave  Jeff  and  his  wife  a  deed  to 
that  place  down  there  where  they  live,  and 
pay  them  ten  dollars  a  month;  and  I've  set 
aside  a  fund  to  keep  the  payment  up  as  long  as 
they  live.  They  don't  have  to  work:  Jeff  fishes 
and  hunts,  and  Aunt  Venus  goes  out  and  does 
fine  cooking  on  special  occasions.  They  have 
a  good  garden,  and  chickens  and  pigs  and  cows, 
a  horse  and  buggy,  bees,  dogs,  and  ducks,  and 
are  just  as  happy  as  it  is  possible  to  be. 

149 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"I  did  the  same  thing  for  Uncle  Rube  and 
Aunt  Dicey.  They  live  on  the  other  side  of 
the  place  on  a  little  farm  I  gave  them,  but 
Rube  has  been  around  the  house  so  long  he 
is  just  miserable  if  he  isn't  here.  But  he  don't 
have  to  do  it." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  know  all  this,"  said  Mr. 
Ralston.  "We  folks  up  home  don't  understand 
how  you  can  do  the  things  you  do  and  not  have 
the  negroes  presume." 

"We  would  not  think  of  treating  these  negroes 
born  after  the  war  with  the  affectionate  famil- 
iarity we  do  the  old  ones  who  have  been  raised 
in  our  family  or  some  other  family  of  good 
white  folks,"  replied  the  major. 

So  the  party  went  to  the  possum-and-coon 
supper,  and  it  was  just  as  had  been  predicted. 
Tom  thought  he  had  never  tasted  anything  better 
than  that  baked  possum  with  the  golden  yellow 
yams  baked  in  the  rich,  well-seasoned  gravy. 

Aunt  Venus,  weighing  nearly  three  hundred 
pounds  and  black  as  a  hat,  in  contrast  to  her 
wiry  little  yellow  husband,  beamed  at  the  com- 
pliments to  her  cooking.  When  the  major  was 
leaving  he  gave  her  a  couple  of  silver  dollars 
and  told  her  to  buy  some  pink  satin  ribbons 
so  she  could  go  to  church  and  flirt  with  the  other 
men  and  make  Jeff  jealous — that  he  did  not 
begin  to  appreciate  properly  such  a  fine  cook. 

150 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Dat's  de  trufe,  Marse  Robert  !"  exclaimed 
Venus.  "Dat  nigger  sho  is  sp'iled.  Hyar  he  is, 
eatin'  grub  eve'y  day  cooked  by  er  cook  dat  de 
Sain'  Chawles  Hotel  in  N'  Yawleens  offered 
seventy -five  dollars  er  month,  en  he  don' 
'predate  hit.  He  oughter  be  kep'  on  cawn- 
pone  en  water  erbout  two  weeks." 

"Well,  how'd  you  like  it?"  inquired  the 
major,  as  they  rode  homeward.     "Get  enough?" 

1 1  No,  sir !' '  said  Tom.  "  I  got  all  I  could  hold, 
but  I  couldn't  hold  enough.  That  was  the  best 
eating  I  ever  have  run  across!" 

"You  bet!"  added  Mr.  Ralston.  "We  must 
try  it  again." 

"You  better  stay  down  here  a  month  or  so, 
Ralston,  and  hunt  and  eat  stuff  like  that;  it 
will  make  a  new  man  of  you,  and  Tom  too. 
Let  your  old  factory  run  itself?"  suggested 
Major  Dean. 

"I'm  just  going  to  do  that  very  thing,"  said 
Mr.  Ralston.  "I've  got  about  enough  money 
— think  I'll  sell  out  and  live  down  here  all  the 
time.  I  never  have  had  any  fun  in  my  life  like 
this.     Always  had  to  work  too  hard." 

"Hope  you  will!"  added  the  major,  heartily. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IT  was  the  mid-winter  season,  and  there  was 
very  little  to  do  on  the  farm  besides  the 
care  of  the  stock.  Joe  and  Mr.  Weston  had 
got  seventeen  calves,  and  none  of  them  cost 
over  three  dollars.  The  pasturage  on  the  rye 
and  young  oats  was  beginning  to  have  its  effect 
on  the  scrawny  little  creatures,  and  they  were 
showing  an  improvement  right  along.  They 
were  carefully  kept  out  of  the  weather  at  night, 
in  dry  quarters,  with  plenty  of  provender,  and 
bedded  in  leaves.  The  compost  pile  was  grow- 
ing, too. 

Joe  and  his  father  kept  up  their  studies  at 
night,  but  every  Saturday  Joe  spent  over  at 
the  Ralstons.  There  was  a  great  deal  that 
Tom  and  his  father  also  could  learn  from  the 
country-bred  boy,  and  he  in  turn  found  associa- 
tion with  the  city  people  was  improving  to  him. 
The  three  of  them  took  long  walks  in  the  sur- 
rounding country,  and  Tom  told  them  the  names 
of  every  tree  and  plant,  of  bird  and  beast,  and 
their  habits. 

Major  Dean  was  staying  most  of  the  time 
*$2 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

at  Runnemede  now,  to  the  delight  of  the 
Ralstons,  and  was  showing  the  new  owner  of  the 
place  how  to  get  ready  for  the  crop  season.  He 
was  away  on  horseback  most  of  the  time,  looking 
over  the  two  thousand  acres  of  the  plantation. 

One  crisp  morning  in  early  January,  after  frost 
had  vanished  from  the  ground,  Tom  and  Joe 
stepped  out  on  the  front  porch.  Tom  kept 
sniffing  the  soft  Gulf  breeze  blowing  from  the 
south. 

1 '  Seems  to  me  like  I  smell  candy  cooking.  I ' ve 
been  smelling  it  ever  since  yesterday,' '  he  re- 
marked. 

"You've  got  a  pretty  good  smeller — only  it's 
sugar  and  molasses  cooking  down  at  the  sugar- 
house.     Ever  see  sugar  made?" 

"No.     Where  is  it?" 

"On  your  own  place  here.  Don't  you  know 
where  the  sugar-house  is,  away  down  the  bayou 
road?" 

"I  had  forgotten  about  it,"  confessed  Tom. 

"Come  on,  let's  go  down  there.  I'll  bet  the 
major  is  there,"  suggested  Joe,  and,  sure  enough, 
as  they  approached  the  long,  low  building  of 
brick  with  a  square  brick  smoke-stack  at  one 
end,  the  major  was  seen  bustling  around,  direct- 
ing the  hands.  Clustered  side  by  side  below 
the  chimney  were  the  kettles,  each  over  a 
brick  furnace,  beginning  with  an  immense  three- 

*53 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

hundred-gallon  one  and  ending  with  a  smaller 
one,  below  which  were  some  wide  troughs  which 
looked  like  mortar-beds,  only  they  overlapped 
one  another  at  the  lower  end.  There  were  four 
of  the  troughs. 

Outside,  bolted  to  a  cross-section  of  an  im- 
mense gum-tree  set  deep  in  the  ground  and  pro- 
jecting about  five  feet  above  the  surface,  was  the 
cane -mill,  or  crusher,  a  series  of  steel  rollers 
geared  together  and  operated  by  a  long  sweep- 
pole,  at  one  end  of  which  was  hitched  a  team 
of  mules  who  walked  in  a  circle  the  length  of  the 
sweep  and  thus  turned  the  crusher. 

Two  negro  boys  were  feeding  the  stalks  of 
sugar-cane  into  the  rollers,  two  at  a  time.  The 
juice  ran  down  in  the  pan  surrounding  the  mill, 
and  then  from  a  spout  fell  upon  a  mass  of 
Spanish  moss  in  a  slanting  trough.  This  was  to 
filter  out  the  bits  of  bark  and  pith  and  trash; 
then  the  juice  was  again  filtered  through  sev- 
eral thicknesses  of  cheese-cloth  into  a  barrel, 
from  which  it  was  dipped  and  taken  to  other 
settling  or  clarifying  barrels. 

"We  ought  to  have  started  grinding  in  Novem- 
ber, Tom,"  said  the  major,  "but  I  was  on  this 
deal  to  sell  to  your  father,  so  I  had  the  cane  cut 
and  banked  as  you  see  it."  The  cane  had  been 
laid  in  furrows  and  dirt  thrown  over  it  to  pre- 
vent its  freezing.     When  it  freezes  the  juice 

i54 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

rapidly  ferments  and  is  useless  for  sugar  or 
molasses  purposes. 

"Is  that  juice  good  to  drink?"  inquired  Tom, 
indicating  the  clear  white  blood  of  the  cane 
trickling  down  into  the  barrel. 

"Try  it.  The  mill  saves  you  the  trouble  of 
chewing  it  out  of  the  stalks,"  said  the  major, 
dipping  a  tin  cup  full  and  tendering  it  to  Tom. 

It  was  sweet  and  cool,  and  delightfully  fragrant 
and  fine.  Tom  liked  the  taste  immensely,  and 
held  out  the  cup  for  more. 

11  I'll  just  try  another  cup  of  it,"  he  announced. 

"Better  not,  Tom,"  warned  Joe  Weston. 
"That  stuff  will  give  you  [an  awful  stomach- 
ache if  you  get  too  much  of  it.  What  you 
drank  is  equal  to  about  three  big  stalks  of  cane. 
Wait  until  we  are  ready  to  go  before  you  try 
it  again." 

"Come  on;  let's  see  what  they  are  doing 
inside.  I  always  get  the  sugar  off  first  so  the 
molasses-making  can  proceed  without  any  inter- 
ruption," said  the  major. 

"I  didn't  know  sugar  could  be  made  up  here?" 
inquired  Tom. 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  my  boy,  it  is  seventy- 
five  miles  north  of  the  *  sugar  belt.'  But  long 
before  the  war  sugar  was  expensive,  and  father 
had  plenty  of  labor — slaves — and  he  concluded 
to  make  his  own  sugar  and  molasses.     He  could 

i55 


JOE,    THE   BOOK    FARMER 

make  some  money  at  it,  too,  when  he  owned 
his  labor,  but  with  wage  hands  one  just  about 
gets  out  even.  There  is  vastly  more  money 
making  molasses.  I  have  made  a  few  barrels 
of  sugar  every  year  for  my  own  use  and  the 
tenants*,  but  not  as  a  strictly  commercial  transac- 
tion. That  light-yellow  sugar  we  had  on  the 
table  for  breakfast  was  made  right  here." 

"  Seems  to  me  that  is  sweeter  than  the  white 
granulated  sugar,"  observed  Joe. 

"I  think  it  is,"  answered  the  major.  "In 
refining  some  of  the  sweetness  seems  to  be  lost." 

They  went  inside,  and  fires  were  blazing  under 
the  kettles.  A  negro  man  was  busy  shoving 
sticks  of  cord-wood  into  the  furnaces  underneath. 
Just  as  the  party  entered,  the  work  of  trans- 
ferring the  contents  of  the  first  or  three-hundred- 
gallon  kettle  was  being  accomplished  by  means 
of  bailing-cans  on  the  end  of  stout  poles. 

"You  see,  boys,"  said  Major  Dean,  "a  large 
percentage  of  the  cane -juice  is  merely  water. 
The  raw  juice  is  first  put  in  this  big  kettle  with 
the  broad  bottom  exposed  to  the  heat,  and  boiled 
down  one-third  to  a  thin  syrup — most  of  the 
water  has  then  evaporated.  At  the  same  time 
the  froth,  and  the  impurities  which  rise  to  the 
top,  are  skimmed  off  and  put  in  that  barrel 
there. 

"Then  in  the  next  kettle  the  work  of  reducing 
156 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

the  water  is  continued,  leaving  the  first  kettle 
to  be  refilled  with  raw  juice.  When  the  second 
kettle  of  what  is  now  thin  molasses  is  emptied 
into  the  third  one,  there  is  hardly  a  hundred 
gallons,  instead  of  the  three  hundred  we  started 
with.  Then  the  cooking  has  to  be  done  very 
carefully,  or  the  'taffy/  as  it  is  called,  will  scorch. 

•  ■  The  cook  watches  closely  for  evidences  of 
crystallization,  testing  it  every  few  minutes, 
and  the  heat  is  gradually  diminished  until  the 
right  time,  when  the  mass  of  hot  stuff  is  emptied 
into  one  of  those  cooling-troughs  you  see.  As 
it  cools  it  crystallizes  more  perfectly,  and  after 
it  is  quite  cool  the  vent  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
trough  is  opened  and  the  syrup  is  allowed  to 
drain  off.  The  crude  sugar  is  left  in  the  first 
trough,  and  in  the  second,  and  some  in  the  third, 
which  you  note  is  a  big  tank,  really.  Then  the 
sugar  is  worked  over  with  wooden  paddles  and 
allowed  to  drain  further.  Later,  after  it  is 
about  as  dry  as  it  will  get,  it  is  packed  in  barrels 
loosely  made  and  turned  up  on  that  inclined 
draining-floor  and  left  there  a  month  or  two.  By 
that  time  the  syrup  is  about  all  out  of  it,  and  the 
sugar  is  light  yellow  in  color." 

"It's  a  right  slow  process,  isn't  it?"  com- 
mented Tom,  biting  into  the  mass  of  warm, 
toothsome  taffy  the  cook  had  gathered  up  for 
him  on  the  end  of  a  little  stick, 

*57 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Oh  yes,"  said  the  major;  "and  that's  the 
reason  the  individual  sugar-maker  like  myself, 
with  my  antiquated  little  mill,  would  lose  money 
hand  over  fist  trying  to  compete  with  the  big 
modern  sugar-factories.  Down  in  the  real  sugar 
country  they  have  immense  establishments,  miles 
and  miles  of  cane-fields  with  cane  brought  to 
tram  dump-cars;  loaded  on  them  by  machinery, 
pulled  in  long  train-loads  to  the  mill;  weighed 
automatically,  dumped  the  same  way  on  a 
traveling  conveyer,  which  sorts  it  and  feeds  it 
automatically  into  steam-driven  rollers  that 
extract  ninety-eight  per  cent,  of  the  juice, 
where  I  get  only  about  fifty  per  cent.  here. 
The  steam-mills  crush  the  cane  so  dry  that 
the  'bagasse,'  as  it  is  called,  is  fed  right  into 
the  furnaces  for  fuel  to  raise  steam  with.  Then 
the  ashes  are  used  for  fertilizer  for  next  year's 
crop." 

"Sort  of  a  perpetual-motion  arrangement?" 
commented  Joe. 

"Rather  much  like  it.  Then  the  juice  from 
the  crushers  is  strained  automatically,  pumped 
from  the  big  settling  and  clarifying  tanks  into 
vats  where  it  is  cooked  quickly  by  superheated 
steam  instead  of  this  slow  process.  When 
crystallization  takes  place  the  taffy,  or  crude 
sugar,  is  dumped  into  a  centrifugal — " 

"What  is  that?"  asked  Tom, 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"A  great  big  steel  drum  perforated  like  a 
strainer  and  revolving  three  or  four  thousand 
times  a  minute.  The  centrifugal  is  started  with 
its  load  of  sticky  taffy,  and  in  less  than  five 
minutes  does  the  work  of  months  here.  Every 
particle  of  molasses  is  whirled  out  of  that  sugar 
and  against  the  sides  of  the  jacket  inclosing 
the  centrifugal,  leaving  the  sugar  perfectly  dry. 
The  molasses  runs  down  the  sides  of  the  casing 
to  a  vat  below.  It  is  at  once  pumped  back  into 
another  cooking-vat  until  crystallization  again 
takes  place;  then  to  the  centrifugal  again,  but 
each  time  it  is  recooked  a  lower  grade  of  sugar 
results.  After  several  of  these  cookings  there 
is  practically  no  sugar  left  in  the  syrup.  It  is 
black,  thick,  and  almost  bitter,  instead  of  this 
golden  sweet  'sirop  de  batterie,'  as  the  French 
call  this  open -kettle  syrup.  And  then  the 
drainings  from  the  crude  sugar  are  the  finest 
grade  yet — they  are  called  'bleedings/" 

"It  is  mighty  interest  nig,"  said  Tom.  "But 
what  I  want  to  know  is,  why  don't  we  get  syrup 
like  this — like  we  eat  up  at  the  house — up 
North?" 

"For  one  reason,  our  people  down  here  are 
great  syrup-eaters,  and  they  won't  let  this  real 
open-kettle  product  get  away.  It  is  too  good 
to  sell;  they  want  it  themselves,"  laughed  the 
major.     "But  a  great  many  farmers  now  are 

i59 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

planting  cane  and  making  it  into  pure  syrup, 
and  quite  a  demand  has  been  created  for  it  in 
the  North.  It  is  a  fine  food,  and  contains  all 
the  sugar." 

"Tom,  you  saw  that  barrel  of  skimmings?" 
asked  Joe.  Tom  nodded.  "Well,  last  year  the 
negroes  around  here  kept  getting  drunk,  and 
nobody  knew  how  they  were  getting  liquor. 
Finally  it  came  out  that  they  let  those  skimmings 
ferment,  and  one  darky  had  rigged  up  a  tin 
ham-boiler  with  a  top  and  a  piece  of  old  rubber 
tubing  to  carry  off  the  steam.  The  fermented 
stuff  was  boiled  in  the  vessel.  The  tube  was 
coiled  in  a  keg  of  cold  water  to  condense  the- 
steam,  and  a  mighty  bad  quality  of  'fighting 
rum'  was  the  result.  The  negro  was  bottling 
it  and  selling  it,  but  the  United  States  revenue 
officers  got  him,  and  he  is  doing  a  year  in  prison 
now." 

"We  see  that  the  skimmings  are  emptied 
out  on  the  ground  each  day  now — that  is,  what 
we  do  not  feed  to  the  hogs,"  said  Major  Dean. 
"It  is  very  fattening." 

"Cane  mighty  sweet  dis  year,"  remarked 
Alfred,  the  sugar-cook,  a  tall  old  yellow  negro 
who  had  helped  make  sugar  on  the  place  before 
the  war.  "Hit's  on  account  of  de  dry  fall — lots 
of  rain  makes  de  cane  sappy  an*  not  much  sugar." 

"That's  good.  Don't  bother  about  making 
160 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

over  twenty  barrels  of  sugar,  Alfred.  Make  the 
rest  in  molasses.  And  you  better  be  getting 
those  barrels  ready,  too." 

"All  right,  sir.  And,  Major,"  he  continued, 
"the  b'ars  are  smellin'  this  cookin'.  I  seen  signs 
of  two  of  'em'  round  here  this  mornin, — a  pretty 
good-sized  one,  another  smaller." 

"Well,  now,  that  is  luck!  Tom,  how'd  you 
like  to  have  a  bear-hunt,  you  and  Joe?"  asked 
the  major. 

"Best  in  the  world!" 

"I  expect  Mr.  Ralston  would  like  to  go  too; 
well  just  go  after  those  bears.  Here,  you  boy — 
come  here!"  A  small  darky  munching  on  a 
piece  of  sugar-cane  approached. 

"What's  your  name?" 

"Dey  calls  me  Dink,"  answered  the  urchin, 
never  stopping  his  attack  on  the  cane. 

"Is  that  your  real  name?"  inquired  the  major. 

"Nosser;  mer  name's  Moses  Aberham  Wash- 
'n't'n  Potts,  but  dey  call  me  Dink  fer  short." 

"And  a  very  good  idea  with  such  a  name. 
You  know  where  old  Uncle  Jeff  lives,  down  on 
the  Pigeon  Roost  road?" 

"Ya-asser!" 

"Scoot  down  there  and  tell  him  to  come  to 
the  big  house  after  dinner;   I  want  to  see  him. 
Here,   maybe  this  dime  will  make  your  legs 
work  faster — you  reckon?" 
11  161 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Ya-asser!"  The  boy  clutched  the  coin, 
jerked  his  hat  in  token  of  thanks,  and  started 
in  a  trot  down  the  road. 

"  Jeff  can  get  us  up  a  fairly  good  pack  of  bear- 
dogs,"  explained  the  major.  "He  has  four  of 
his  own,  and  with  six  or  eight  more  we  can  have 
some  fun." 

On  the  return  to  the  house  Mr.  Ralston  was 
enthused  over  the  idea,  although  he  had  never 
done  any  hunting.  Tom,  under  the  teaching  of 
Joe  Weston,  had  become  a  very  fair  shot.  He 
had  a  little  sixteen-gage  shotgun,  and  Joe 
had  been  giving  him  instructions  for  several 
days.  He  had  got  to  the  point  of  proficiency 
where  he  had  been  able  to  bring  down  a  few 
quail  on  the  wing,  and  was  immensely  proud  of 
his  achievement.  He  promptly  took  his  father 
in  hand,  and  was  passing  his  knowledge  on  to 
Mr.  Ralston  with  very  fair  success,  having  an 
apt  pupil. 

Immediately  there  was  a  bustle  of  preparation 
around  the  house,  getting  hunting  equipment 
ready.  The  major  was  going  to  carry  his 
forty-four  repeating  rifle;  Tom  had  a  thirty- 
eight  Winchester;  and  Joe  pinned  his  faith  to  a 
twelve-gage  shotgun  and  buckshot  shells. 

Uncle  Jeff  came  up  about  three  o'clock,  and 
was  highly  elated  at  the  idea  of  a  bear-hunt. 
Mr.  Ralston  furnished  him  a  horse  to  ride,  and 

162 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

he  assured  the  hunters  he  could  collect  a  dozen 
dogs  by  night,  and  would  be  ready  to  start  at 
dawn  next  morning. 

Major  Dean  rode  back  to  the  sugar-house, 
and  directed  that  several  tubs  of  the  skimmings 
from  the  molasses  be  left  outside  where  the 
bears  could  get  at  the  sweet  stuff,  as  they  are 
notoriously  fond  of  honey  and  molasses.  Uncle 
Rube  got  the  horses  ready,  the  guns  and  equip- 
ments were  oiled  and  in  shape,  and  Joe  Weston 
rode  over  home  to  tell  his  parents  that  he  would 
spend  the  night  at  the  Ralstons'  and  go  bear- 
hunting  in  the  morning. 

Accordingly,  the  hunters  turned  in  early  to 
get  a  good  night's  rest,  for  the  start  was  to  be 
considerably  before  day  the  next  morning. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

T-OO-T!  T-oo-oot!  T-ooo-ot!" 
Tom  and  Joe  bounced  up  in  bed  and  lis- 
tened. It  seemed  as  if  they  had  only  climbed 
in  a  minute  before.  The  horn  was  sounding  in 
front  of  the  house,  and  it  appeared  as  if  all  the 
dogs  in  creation  were  yelping,  baying,  bark- 
ing, and  whining  out  there.  Tom  looked  at  his 
watch — they  had  slept  with  the  lamp  turned 
low  so  as  to  be  ready. 

"Four  o'clock.     Uncle  Jeff  is  on  time!" 

Tom  ran  to  the  fireplace  and  touched  a  match 
to  the  fat  pine  splinters  beneath  an  armful  of 
lightwood  knots.  In  less  than  a  minute  a 
roaring  fire  filled  the  wide  fireplace  and  began 
to  warm  the  room. 

"It's  kind  of  chilly  this  morning !"  observed 
Joe,  with  chattering  teeth. 

"Great  Scott!  You  call  this  chilly?  How'd 
you  like  to  wake  up  like  I  did  at  Aunt  Henri- 
etta's up  in  New  Hampshire  and  find  the  water 
in  the  pitcher  a  solid  block  of  ice,  and  my  breath 
on  the  blankets  frozen,  and  the  thermometer 
fifteen  degrees  below  zero?"  said  Tom. 

164 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"  Wouldn't  like  it,  and  I'd  move  away  from 
such  cold  as  that,  if  I  had  to  walk  every  step  of 
the  way,"  answered  Joe,  hustling  into  his  clothes. 

"Here!  Hold  on!  You  take  that  old  suit  of 
mine,"  said  Tom.  "Uncle  Jeff  said  we  are  going 
into  swamps  and  cane-brakes  'whut  is  sho  'nuff 
cane-brakes/  No  use  your  ruining  your  good 
clothes." 

"All  right;  but  I  expect  that  old  suit  of  yours 
is  about  as  good  as  this  one  of  mine.  Give  it 
here." 

Uncle  Jeff's  horn  was  heard  at  the  rear  of  the 
house,  where  he  had  gone  to  wake  Rube  and  his 
wife  and  the  stable-boy,  but  they  had  been  up 
nearly  an  hour.  There  was  a  meal  of  hot 
coffee,  fried  ham  and  eggs,  and  some  hot  corn- 
batter  cakes  and  biscuits  ready  for  the  hunters. 

Mr.  Ralston  and  the  major  came  down  in  a 
few  minutes.  At  the  major's  belt  was  a  long 
bowie-knife,  and  on  the  other  side  a  six-shooter 
of  heavy  caliber. 

"Look  like  you  were  going  West  to  hold  up 
trains  or  shoot  Indians!"  commented  Tom.  "I 
didn't  know  a  person  had  to  take  all  that  hard- 
ware along  to  kill  bears." 

"Oh,  it's  just  a  matter  of  choice,"  said  the 
major,  "but  it  is  almighty  handy  to  have  a 
knife.  Saved  my  life  and  Jeff's  too,  once — this 
very  knife." 

165 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"How  was  that?"  inquired  Joe,  at  the  same 
time  busy  with  his  breakfast. 

"Once  when  Jeff  and  I  were  boys,  not  much 
older  than  you  two  chaps,  we  went  down  in  the 
same  cane-brakes  we  are  going  into  this  morning. 
We  had  old  muzzle-loading  shotguns  with  nothing 
but  small  bird-shot.  We  were  out  for  squirrels, 
and  we  scared  up  a  bear.  Or  it  scared  us  up, 
I  should  say. 

''He  was  a  whale  of  a  bear,  too.  Jeff,  like  a 
fool,  fired  a  load  of  these  small  shot  at  long 
range.  The  shot  merely  made  him  fighting-mad, 
and  he  made  a  rush  for  us.  A  vine  was  in  my 
way  as  I  stepped  back  so  I  could  get  a  sight  on 
him.  I  wanted  to  put  those  shot  in  his  eyes 
and  blind  him — killing  was  out  of  the  question — 
and  I  tripped  and  fell." 

"Did  the  bear  jump  on  you?"  asked  Tom, 
breathlessly. 

"No,  for  Jeff  stepped  in  and  broke  his  gun 
over  the  bear's  head.  It  diverted  attention 
from  me,  but  the  bear  knocked  Jeff  winding 
with  one  sweep  of  its  paw,  and  tore  his  shoulder 
frightfully,  then  was  trying  to  hug  him  to  death. 
I  could  not  shoot  for  fear  of  hitting  Jeff,  so  I 
waded  in  with  this  knife,  which  belonged  to 
my  father  and  which  I  had  just  put  on  to  be 
carrying  it. 

"I  managed  to  cut  the  bear's  jugular  vein 
166 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

the  first  lick,  when  the  bear  dropped  Jeff  and 
grabbed  me.  I  was  working  on  him  with  the 
knife — managed  to  stab  him  right  in  the  heart — 
and  he  was  losing  blood  so  fast  he  could  not 
crush  me  as  he  tried  to,  but  he  was  clawing  my 
back  to  ribbons,  and  I  was  bathed  in  blood 
gushing  from  the  bear's  throat  and  breast.  He 
had  mashed  my  shoulder  and  broken  a  rib,  and 
I  could  not  use  the  knife  any  more. 

"Jeff  managed  to  get  hold  of  my  gun,  and 
placed  the  muzzle  right  against  the  bear's  head 
and  blew  his  brains  out,  and  that  released 
me. 

"We  managed  to  get  home,  Jeff  with  three 
broken  ribs,  and  I  with  one  broken  rib  and  a 
back  slithered  into  ribbons  with  those  claws,  but 
it  taught  me  a  lesson.  I  never  go  for  bears 
without  this  knife;  and  a  good  heavy  pistol  at 
close  quarters  is  handy,  too." 

By  this  time  breakfast  was  over,  and  the  party 
went  out  and  mounted  their  horses.  Uncle  Jeff 
came  too,  and  Uncle  Rube,  and  an  old  half- 
Indian  negro  they  called  Choctaw,  who  owned 
a  number  of  the  dogs  that  made  up  the  pack 
of  fourteen.  Choctaw  walked  so  he  could  better 
control  the  dogs. 

"We'll  start  from  the  sugar-house,  Jeff," 
ordered  the  major,  who  was  in  command  of  the 
hunt.     "I  told  Alfred  to  leave  some  skimmings 

167 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

where  the  bears  could  get  to  them,  and  I'm  sure 
we'll  get  a  trail  there." 

The  dogs  circled  the  silent  sugar-house,  then 
at  the  wash-tub,  which  had  been  overturned  and 
licked  clean,  the  pack  broke  into  full  cry  and 
started  for  the  woods,  almost  a  mile  distant. 
The  day  was  now  showing  gray  in  the  east, 
and  in  the  west  the  half -moon  was  shining,  so 
there  was  little  difficulty  in  following. 

"  Those  bears  heard  Jeff  and  his  horn  and  the 
dogs  up  there  at  the  house  when  he  came,  and 
they  knew  what  it  meant.  They  are  not  an 
hour  ahead  of  us,  and  they  will  go  slow  after 
they  strike  the  woods.  Look  out  for  your  eyes 
now  from  twigs  and  limbs,"  called  the  major. 
He  led  the  advance  into  the  timber.  The  dogs 
were  now  making  the  woods  resound  with  their 
music. 

Choctaw  was  right  behind  them,  following  in 
a  long,  swinging  Indian  trot,  and  his  horn  could 
be  heard  at  intervals  as  a  guide  for  the  hunters. 
All  were  too  busy  dodging  limbs  and  vines  now 
to  talk,  and  the  horses  trailed  off  after  the  major's 
mount  without  any  guidance  from  their  riders. 

Perhaps  ten  minutes  had  been  spent  going  for- 
ward, twisting  and  turning  in  the  forest  trails, 
thick  with  cane  fifteen  and  twenty  feet  high 
among  the  gum  and  blackjack  trees,  when  the 
party  reined  up. 

168 


JOE,   THE    BOOK   FARMER 

"By  George,  I  haven't  heard  the  dogs  for 
some  time!"  wondered  Major  Dean. 

"Wait  er  minnet — be  still!"  cautioned  Uncle 
Jeff,  putting  his  hand  to  his  ear  and  listening. 
A  faint  morning  breeze  stirred  the  dry  cane-tops, 
and  on  it  could  just  be  distinguished  the  sound 
of  the  horn  in  the  distance. 

"Callin'  us,  folks;  callin,  us!"  said  the  old 
negro,  excitedly.  "Dat's  way  down  by  Dead 
Man's  Dump,  er  mile  er  mo'  f'om  here.  Dem 
dawgs  has  sho  been  movin\  Come  on;  dey's 
er  ole  wood-road  over  dis  way!" 

A  hundred  yards  or  so  to  the  left  the  horses 
struck  the  wood  trail  and  fell  into  a  swift  lope. 
Presently  they  paused,  and  Jeff  sent  a  long, 
swift  call  echoing  through  the  silent  forest. 

The  answer  was  the  tooting  of  the  horn  not  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away  and  faint  sounds  of 
barking,  yelping  dogs. 

"Treed,  by  gum!  Treed!"  cried  Uncle  Jeff. 
"Come  on;  I  knows  de  way.  It's  down  in  dat 
big  ole  dip  in  de  woods  torrards  de  bayou — 
come  on!"     He  was  as  excited  as  the  boys. 

Sending  another  yell  ringing  through  the 
woods  in  answer  to  the  horn,  the  horses  struck 
a  lope  again.  The  baying  became  more  dis- 
tinct, and  the  horn  sounded  nearer  them.  Jeff 
swung  from  his  horse  and  hurriedly  hitched  it 
to  a  sapling. 

169 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Hosses  can't  stand  a  b'ar,"  he  explained,  as 
the  others  did  the  same ;  and  the  party  started, 
Indian  file,  after  him  in  a  trot  down  a  long  slope 
thick  with  black-gum  trees  and  pin-oaks.  At 
the  bottom  there  was  a  sudden  rise,  almost 
like  an  Indian  mound,  on  the  apex  of  which 
stood  an  immense  solitary  magnolia  tree. 

On  its  hind-legs,  back  to  the  tree,  and  with 
lolling  tongue  and  blazing  eyes,  was  an  immense 
bear,  tall  as  a  man,  and  evidently  frenzied  with 
rage. 

The  dogs  were  frantic  with  excitement,  but 
afraid  to  venture  in.  One  would  run  around 
behind  and  nip  Bruin,  and  as  he  turned  to  slap 
at  the  dog  others  would  bite  him  in  front.  The 
carcasses  of  two  dogs  whose  bravery  had  run 
away  with  their  discretion  lay  at  the  feet  of 
the  bear. 

"I  been  holdin'  'im  yere  fer  yer!"  exclaimed 
Rube.  "He's  a  big  'un,  an*  mean — Lawdy 
mussy!  Dem  yuther  two  dey  lit  out  fer  de 
cane-brake  an'  ain'  stopped  yit,  but  dis  yer  ole 
scoun'l  beas'  he  'lowed  he  warn'  gwine  run 
ernother  step.  Now  me  en  Choctaw  11  put  all 
dem  dawgs  atter  'im,  an'  you'll  see  er  fight  whut 
is  er  fight!" 

"Hold  on,  Rube.  You  and  Choctaw  '11  get 
all  your  dogs  killed!"  called  the  major. 

"Naw,  suh;  not  my  dawgs.  Dey's  fit  b'ars 
170 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

befo';  an'  dem  yuthers  ain'  nuffin'  but  jes' 
common  nigger  dawgs.  Ef  dey  pulls  thoo  dis 
fight  maybe  dey's  got  de  makin's  of  er  good 
b'ar-dog  in  'em  some  day;  an*  ef  dey  gits  kilt 
hit  ain'  no  perticler  loss.  Whoopee!  Git  'im, 
boys!  Ketch  'im,  boys!  Sic  'im,  Drum — you 
Blue,  go  atter  'im,  ole  boy!  Sic  'im,  Rattler! 
Toot!    Toot!    Ketch  'im— whooee!" 

The  dogs  were  almost  maddened  by  the 
encouragement  and  the  horn.  The  pack  made 
a  rush,  and  two  dogs  jumped  for  his  throat. 

The  mighty  forearm  swung,  and  the  carcass 
of  one  dog  rolled  down  the  hill;  the  other  was 
instantly  crushed  to  a  shapeless  mass  against 
the  bosom  of  the  bear.  Another  reaching  swing 
of  his  arms  and  a  hound  went  howling  down  the 
slope,  an  ear  in  tattered  ribbons. 

"He's  a-gettin'  uneasy;  he's  gwine  ter  make 
er  break!"  called  Uncle  Jeff.  "Don'  le's  shoot 
him  yet;  dis  yer  is  too  much  fun!" 

He  proved  a  good  prophet.  The  bear  made 
a  dash  down  the  far  side  of  the  slope,  dogs 
swarming  about  him  and  nipping  him  amid  a 
bedlam  of  yelps  and  howls  and  snarls  mingled 
with  growls  from  the  bear.  He  raised  up  a 
moment  on  his  hind-legs.  With  incredible  rapid- 
ity he  bowled  a  dog  over  dead,  and  resumed  his 
swift,  lumbering  lope.  The  men  and  boys  chased 
after  him,  the  pack  of  dogs  again  upon  him. 

171 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"He's  try-in'  ter  git  in  de  thick  cane  whar  de 
dawgs  won't  have  sich  a  sweep  at  'im!"  yelled 
Choctaw. 

The  cane-brake  was  about  three  hundred  yards 
away,  dense,  almost  impenetrable,  and  stretch- 
ing a  quarter  of  a  mile  on  each  side  of  a  deep, 
swift  bayou.  The  bear  started  to  climb  a  beech 
tree,  but  the  dogs  nipped  him  so  he  gave  up 
the  attempt.  Running  a  short  distance,  he 
backed  up  against  another  tree  and  killed 
another  dog. 

The  dogs  were  now  reduced  almost  to  Jeff's 
pack,  and  they,  from  long  acquaintance  with 
bears,  had  a  wholesome  respect  for  those  power- 
ful, swift-striking  arms  with  lancelike  claws  at 
the  ends. 

They  swarmed  and  bit  and  baited,  yelping 
and  dodging  and  worrying,  until  they  and  the 
animal  seemed  almost  frenzied. 

In  his  excitement  Tom  had  danced  around 
until  he  was  between  the  bear  and  the  cane- 
brake. 

"If  he  makes  a  rush  this  time  we  must  shoot 
him;  we  can't  let  him  get  in  that  cane!"  called 
the  major.  "Give  him  plenty  of  room;  every- 
body fall  back!" 

The  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  his  mouth 
than  with  an  awful  snort  and  cry  of  frenzied 
rage  the  desperate  bear  dropped  to  all  fours 

172 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

and  made  a  charge,  eyes  blazing  and  bloody 
foam  dripping  from  the  lolling  tongue. 

Tom  Ralston  was  right  in  the  path  of  the 
animal. 

"Lookout!  Lookout!  Shoot, Tom!  Shoot !" 
yelled  the  major,  who  went  white  as  a  sheet. 

Tom  was  frightened  out  of  his  wits  for  a 
moment  at  the  giant  bear  coming  toward  him. 
Determination  to  wipe  the  offending  human  from 
his  path  to  liberty  showed  in  the  eyes,  as  in  a 
moment  the  creature  raised  on  his  hind-legs  and 
advanced  on  the  boy. 

" Shoot,  Tom!  Shoot!"  almost  groaned  the 
major.  Mr.  Ralston  was  so  paralyzed  with  fear 
for  his  son  that  he  could  not  utter  a  word. 

The  rest  of  the  crowd  were  all  clustered  in 
the  direction  the  bear  came  from,  and  to  shoot 
was  almost  certainly  to  kill  Tom.  The  major 
suddenly  ran  at  right  angles,  in  order  to  get  a 
shot  which  would  not  imperil  Tom's  life  as  well 
as  that  of  the  bear.   It  all  happened  in  a  moment. 

Suddenly  the  paralyzing  fear  left  Tom.  The 
realization  hammered  on  his  brain  that  he  must 
fight  for  his  life.  The  bear  was  not  twenty 
feet  away,  and  was  coming  on  with  waving 
arms,  bared  teeth,  and  ears  laid  back. 

Tom  threw  his  rifle  to  his  shoulder,  sighted 
quickly  at  the  breast  just  between  those  powerful 
arms,  and  pulled  the  trigger.    At  the  crack  of 

173 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

the  rifle  the  bear  flinched,  paused,  and  in  that 
second  Tom  had  ejected  the  shell  and  put 
another  bullet  near  the  first  one.  The  bear 
wavered,  then  dropped  to  all  fours  for  a  rush, 
and  as  he  did  so  Tom  placed  another  bullet  in 
the  shoulder.  This  crippled  the  animal,  which 
was  staggering  toward  him,  game  to  the  last, 
and,  when  not  ten  feet  away,  another  well- 
directed  bullet  in  the  brain  stopped  the  charge, 
and  the  great  creature  fell  dead  in  its  tracks. 

"I  got  him!  I  got  him!  I  got  him!"  was  the 
shrill  paean  of  victory  that  rang  from  Tom's 
lips  and  stirred  the  paralyzed  party  beyond, 
who  rushed  forward. 

Tom  forgot  the  sickening  horror  of  the 
moment  before  when  he  expected  to  be  torn 
by  those  awful  claws,  and  he  danced  about  the 
dead  bear  with  the  joy  of  a  child. 

"Well,  if  that  wasn't  the  coolest  proposition 
i"  ever  saw!"  gasped  the  major,  after  a  long 
breath.  "  What  made  you  wait  that  way,  Tom? 
Suppose  your  gun  had  missed  fire?  It  was  the 
bravest  thing  I  ever  saw  in  a  chap,  and  one  not 
used  to  hunting,  too!" 

"I'm  not  going  to  get  a  reputation  for  bravery 
under  false  pretenses,"  answered  Tom,  "and 
I  tell  you  the  honest  truth — I  was  scared  so  bad 
at  first  I  just  couldn't  shoot  until  I  knew  I  had 
to  or  get  clawed!" 

i74 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

The  major  dipped  his  finger  in  the  blood  of 
the  bear  and  made  a  curious  mark,  like  a  large 
comma,  on  Tom's  forehead  with  it. 

"  What's  that  for?"  inquired  Tom,  grinning. 

"  That's  your  initiation,  your  christening,  into 
the  ranks  of  big-game  hunters.  It  is  an  old 
custom  of  the  tribe  of  Indians  that  used  to  live 
around  here,  and  it's  done  ever  since  I  knew 
how  to  hunt." 

"Dat's  right!"  supported  the  usually  silent 
old  half-Indian  negro,  Choctaw.  "My  gran- 
daddy,  ole  Injun  name  Tillatubbe,  he  done  me 
dat  way  w'en  I  got  mer  firs'  b'ar,  en  he  said  his 
daddy  gin'  him  de  mark  de  fus'  big  game  he 
kill,  en  his  daddy  done  de  same,  en  his  gran- 
daddy." 

"All  right!"  said  Tom,  proudly.  "I  want  to 
go  the  limit,  but  it  never  occurred  to  me  to 
kill  that  bear  until  we  looked  right  into  each 
other's  eyes  a  half -second.  Then  I  knew 
it  was  his  life  or  mine,  and  I  hardly  realized 
what  I  was  doing  when  I  was  pumping  him  full 
of  bullets." 

"You  is  brave,  jes'  de  same,"  said  Uncle  Jeff. 
"Hit  takes  er  brave  man  to  tell  de  tru't  some- 
times. All  dese  hyar  fellers  whut  says  dey  am* 
skeered  dey  b'longs  ter  de  same  lodge  wid  ole 
man  Annernias  whut  we  reads  erbout  in  de 
Good  Book." 

i7S 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"That  bearskin  will  be  something  to  take 
back  up  North  and  show  the  folks.  It  will  open 
their  eyes,  old  chap !"  said  Joe  Weston.  "  Uncle 
Jeff,  I  want  you  to  take  that  hide  off  and  leave 
the  skull  and  teeth,  and  fix  it  up  for  Mr.  Ralston 
for  a  rug,"  said  Joe. 

"It's  a  beauty,  too!"  commented  Tom's 
father.  He  was  just  beginning  to  get  his  nerve 
back  enough  to  talk. 

"One  of  the  prettiest  and  largest  I  have  ever 
seen,"  said  the  major.  "That  old  scamp  has 
been  living  off  my  roasting-ears  and  yams  and 
sugar-cane  all  summer  and  is  fat  as  a  seal. 
The  hide  is  fine  and  glossy.  It  will  make  a 
magnificent  souvenir." 

"Uncle  Rube,  what  do  you  reckon  that  bear 
weighs?"  inquired  Tom. 

"Ter  tell  de  trufe,  dat  s  erbout  de  bigges' 
varmint  of  de  sort  whut's  been  kilt  in  dis  neck 
er  de  woods  since  I  kin  recomember.  Dat  b'ar 
weighs  nigh  onto  six  hunnerd  pouns." 

"Are  we  going  after  the  other  two?"  inquired 
Joe  Weston. 

"I  think  this  is  glory  and  game  enough  for 
one  day,"  answered  the  major.  "We  will  save 
the  others.  I'll  have  Alfred  put  the  skimmings 
from  the  sugar-house  where  they  can  get  them, 
and  keep  those  bears  in  the  neighborhood,  so  we 
can  have  one  more  hunt  before  the  season  closes." 

176 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"  How  we  gwine  git  all  dis  meat  home?"  asked 
Uncle  Rube. 

"You  and  Jeff  and  Choctaw  stay  here  and 
skin  that  bear  and  cut  up  the  meat:  I'll  send 
the  stable-boy  down  with  the  spring-wagon  as 
far  as  the  wagon  can  go  on  the  wood-road,  and 
the  four  of  you  can  pack  the  meat  then  to 
where  the  wagon  is,"  said  the  major. 

"Well,  Marse  Tom,  I  wants  one  er  dem  paws 
arter  de  skin  an'  de  claws  is  took  off ;  er  pig-foot 
ain'  er  sarcumstance  ter  how  good  hit  is  ter 
eat."  Uncle  Jeff  licked  his  lips  in  pleasurable 
anticipation. 

"You  certainly  shall  have  a  paw  off  my  bear, 
Uncle  Jeff,"  agreed  Tom,  "provided  you  fix 
me  one  just  like  it  to  eat." 

"Dat  sho  is  er  trade!" 

Jeff  then  pulled  off  his  coat  and  began  helping 
Rube  skin  the  bear,  using  the  major's  bowie. 
The  dogs  were  still  excitedly  grouped  around 
and  nursing  their  wounds,  but  expectant  of  the 
titbits  they  would  soon  receive  as  a  reward  for 
their  services  in  the  cause .  Choctaw  was  kindling 
a  fire  at  which  he  expected  to  broil  a  few  steaks 
for  the  refreshment  of  himself  and  Jeff  and  Rube. 

"Reckon  we'd  better  be  getting  back  home, 
Mr.  Ralston,"  suggested  the  major.  "It's 
about  twelve  o'clock — will  be  dinner-time  when 
we  get  there." 

12  177 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"  Yes,  I'm  ready  for  mine  right  now,"  asserted 
Mr.  Ralston.     ' '  Come  on,  boys !" 

"I  don't  want  to  go  now,  I  want  to  stay  here 
and  see  'em  skin  this  bear  and  get  a  taste  of 
those  broiled  bear-steaks,"  said  Tom. 

"Me,  too,"  said  Joe  Weston.  Mr.  Ralston 
looked  a  bit  sheepish. 

"This  is  the  first  real  hunt  I  ever  was  on, 
Major,"  he  confessed,  "and  I  believe  I'd  like 
to  stay  with  the  boys  and  see  the  thing  through 
and  taste  bear  meat  broiled  in  the  woods." 

"Well,  it's  mighty  fine,  but  it  is  no  novelty 
to  me.  Believe  I'd  rather  go  home  and  get  a 
good  dinner  and  take  a  nap.  I'm  getting  too 
old  for  such  early  rising  and  so  much  exercise 
without  some  rest,"  said  Major  Dean. 

"Make  dat  boy  Jim  bring  us  some  bread  en 
some  salt  en  pepper  when  he  comes  wid  de 
waggin,  pie'  suh?"  suggested  Uncle  Rube. 

"I  was  just  going  to  suggest  that,"  answered 
the  major.  "I'll  get  home  fast  as  I  can  and  get 
him  started.     Good-by!" 

In  about  an  hour  Jim  arrived  with  a  basket 
in  which  were  half  a  dozen  corn-pones,  a  dozen 
or  so  biscuit,  and  some  light  bread.  There  was 
plenty  of  pepper  and  salt.  The  coals  were  ready, 
and  Choctaw  cut  the  steaks  and  broiled  them.  Lib- 
erally sprinkled  with  salt  and  pepper  and  greased 
in  their  own  fat,  the  bear-meat  steaks  were  great- 

178 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

ly  relished  by  the  hungry  party ;  and  it  was  late 
in  the  afternoon  when  the  wagon  bearing  the  rest 
of  the  meat,  the  hide,  and  the  darkies  not  provided 
with  horses  started  on  its  way  back  to  the  house. 

"I've  just  had  a  bully  time!"  said  Joe  Weston. 
"It  was  the  first  bear-hunt  I  have  ever  been 
on,  but  I  hunt  birds  and  rabbits  and  possums 
and  coons  all  the  time  when  I  get  a  chance." 

"Father,  I  like  it  out  here  in  the  country  a 
heap  better  than  living  in  town.  I  want  to 
stay  here  all  the  year,"  urged  Tom  Ralston. 

"Really,  Tom,  it  is  the  first  sure-enough  fun 
I  have  ever  had.  Think  I'll  begin  to  get  my 
business  in  such  shape  I  can  spend  all  the  winter 
down  here,  at  any  rate,"  answered  his  father. 

"I  just  wish  you  would." 

"Do  you  like  it  that  much,  son?" 

"I  sure  do.  I'm  going  to  be  a  farmer," 
announced  Tom,  with  finality.  "I  am  going 
to  learn  all  about  it." 

"What  do  you  think  of  country  life,  Joe?" 
inquired  Mr.  Ralston. 

"I'm  just  beginning  to  learn  something  about 
it  myself,"  answered  Joe  Weston.  "Used  to 
live  in  the  country  just  like  a  goat  or  a  cow  or 
a  horse:  just  took  what  happened  to  be  there. 
Now  I'm  trying  to  learn  the  'why'  of  things  and 
put  on  the  ground  what  I  want.  Biggest  chance 
in  it  of  anything,  I  think." 

J79 


CHAPTER  XIX 

JOE  WESTON  returned  home  with  a  big 
bear  ham,  and  the  Weston  family  reveled 
in  bear-steaks  and  a  fine  roast  for  several  days. 
The  weather  was  crisp  and  cool,  and  the  meat 
kept  well. 

Monday  he  bought  two  calves  at  school,  the 
boys  owning  them  bringing  them  there  for 
delivery.  One  he  got  for  a  dollar  and  a  half, 
the  other  for  two  dollars.  This  was  a  heifer, 
showing  traces  of  Jersey  blood.  He  drove  his 
acquisitions  home  that  evening  and  turned  them 
in  on  the  oats,  which  they  went  at  as  if  they  were 
starving. 

"  We'll  just  keep  that  little  grade  Jersey,"  he 
suggested  to  his  father.  "We  will  be  needing 
more  cows,  and  can  make  money  on  butter. 
I  expect  we  can  pick  up  a  good  many  worth 
keeping." 

"That's  right,"  agreed  Mr.  Weston.  "There's 
another  nice  little  heifer  calf  down  behind  the 
hill  grazing  on  my  oats — looks  like  she's  got 
Jersey  in  her  too." 

"Le's  plant  all  the  stuff  we  can  for  feed  this 
x8o 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

year,  and  keep  all  this  stock  in  good  shape.  It 
is  bound  to  pay  us  fine  by  next  year  and  the 
year  after.,, 

"We'll  just  do  that  very  thing,"  said  Mr. 
Weston.  "I  want  to  break  that  awful  poor 
piece  of  land  on  the  hilltop  and  turn  under  a 
lot  of  this  fertilizer  and  stuff  so  it  can  start 
to  rotting.  You'll  have  to  help  me  with  the 
haulin7, 

"All  right,  but  we  haven't  got  near  enough 
fertilizer." 

"I  know  that,  but  I  want  to  stop  the  washin' 
on  that  piece  of  land  and  turn  under  what  we 
can.  Deep  plowin'  an'  that  fertilizer  stuff  will 
make  it  hold  water  better,  an'  I'll  run  the  fur- 
rows so  they'll  carry  the  water.  It's  too  ex- 
posed to  do  much  as  a  field,  an'  too  poor  for  a 
pasture.  My  idee's  to  put  some  life  in  that 
soil,  then  use  that  whole  hill  for  a  pasture  after 
gettin'  it  set  good  in  grass  an'  clover." 

"What  you  going  to  plant  first — pease?" 

"Nope — velvet -beans.  They'll  run  all  over 
creation,  stop  the  washing,  put  nitrogen  in  the 
soil,  shed  lots  of  leaves  to  plow  under,  and  give 
us  a  fine  pasture  themselves.  The  cattle  will 
help  build  the  soil  with  the  droppings  while 
runnin'  on  it." 

"Oh,  I  read  something  about  those  beans. 
They  are  said  to  be  mighty  fine  for  stock." 

181 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"  That's  what  I  hear.  Well  try  'em,  any- 
way. Then  next  fall,  after  the  cattle  have 
eaten  up  the  vines  and  stuff,  we'll  break  the  land 
again,  put  it  in  oats,  let  'em  graze  it  all  winter. 
The  oats  '11  hold  the  land  and  stop  the  washing 
if  planted  thick.  Then  in  spring  turn  'em  under 
an'  we've  got  some  sure-enough  good  pasture- 
land.  Then  sow  clover  an'  good  Bermuda 
grass  and  lespedeza." 

"I  think  that  plan  will  work  all  right,"  agreed 
Joe.  "We'll  start  hauling  at  daylight  to- 
morrow. I  can  make  a  couple  of  loads  of  fer- 
tilizer before  time  for  school." 

"We  got  to  fence  that  pasture,  too,  Joe.  We 
got  to  run  it  down  on  this  side  so  as  to  take  in 
the  branch,  for  water  an'  so  the  cattle  can  get 
down  about  the  shade  in  the  middle  of  the 
day.  It's  goin'  to  cost  a  heap  more'n  I  figgered 
on." 

"Well,  we  can't  raise  stock  without  fences,  or 
crops  either.  If  we  get  the  posts  ourselves,  put 
'em  in  ourselves,  and  string  the  wire  ourselves 
I  can't  see  how  it's  going  to  cost  so  much." 

"Yes,  but  we'll  have  to  buy  the  wire  on 
credit." 

"Well,  that's  all  right  as  long  as  the  stuff 
helps  increase  the  earning  power  of  the  place, 
ain't  it,  pa?" 

"I  been  burnt  on  this  credit  business  so  long 
182 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

I'm  afeard  to  buy  anything  less'n  I  got  the 
money  to  pay  for  it,  Joe." 

"The  difference  is  that  we  didn't  have  any- 
thing to  pay  with  in  the  past — no  certain  pros- 
pects, I  mean.  Now  we've  got  stock  enough 
to  pay  about  all  we  owe — outside  of  what's 
due  on  the  place." 

"Mebbe  so,  but  I  ain't  struck  on  this  credit 
business,  anyhow. ' '  Mr.  Weston  shook  his  head, 
still  unconvinced. 

M  Credit  is  all  right  if  it  is  used  right,"  insisted 
Joe. 

"Who  told  you  that?"  demanded  his  father. 

"At  the  bank.  Mr.  Hollis,  the  cashier,  told 
me,  '  Don't  be  afraid  to  capitalize  your  earning 
power,  and  don't  be  afraid  of  credit  if  you  know 
you  have  stuff  of  more  than  its  value  to  back  it 
up  with.  The  trouble  is,  folks  just  plunge  in 
without  considering  those  things.'" 

"That's  new  to  me.  Reckon  it's  right — 
banker  ought  to  know — " 

They  were  interrupted  by  Mr.  Ralston  and 
Tom,  who  had  driven  over  and  hitched  the 
team  at  the  front  gate.  The  visitors  looked 
around  the  place  carefully,  and  were  much 
interested  in  the  plans  of  Joe  and  his  fa- 
ther. 

"Look  here,  Mr.  Weston;  if  you  need  any 
capital  to  help  you  work  this   proposition  out 

183 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

I  can  lend  you  all  you  want  at  four  per  cent.," 
suggested  the  manufacturer. 

"Much  obliged.  I'm  carrying  a  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  at  ten  per  cent,  at  the  bank.  I'll 
just  switch  that  and  save  six  per  cent.,"  an- 
nounced Mr.  Weston. 

"  Better  get  another  hundred,  pa.  It's  cheaper 
to  rent  the  cash  at  four  per  cent,  and  trade  for 
cash  with  the  discounts  that  are  allowed  than 
to  pay  credit  prices,"  suggested  Joe. 

"That's  business!"  said  Mr.  Ralston.  "If 
the  farmers  could  get  cheap  money  to  finance 
themselves  with  like  manufacturers,  they  could 
do  much  better.  I  just  imagined  you  could  use 
some  cheap  money,  and  I've  got  some  lying 
around  idle,  so  I  thought  I'd  help  you  out." 

"Much  obliged — it  will  be  a  big  help.  In  a 
couple  of  years  more  Joe  and  me  hope  to  be 
able  to  have  a  bit  extry  on  the  side  and  be  able 
to  finance  ourselves." 

"Hope  you  will,  Mr.  Weston." 

"Oh,  we'll  work  this  thing  out  and  have  a 
surplus  by  then,  I  am  sure,"  asserted  Joe,  with 
confidence. 

"Then  we  want  to  buy  some  more  land 
and  raise  more  stock,"  Mr.  Weston  confided. 
"There's  good  profit  in  stock  if  you  raise  all 
they  eat,"  he  added. 

"I've  always  thought  that  myself,"  responded 
184 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Mr.  Ralston.  "It  is  just  like  a  manufacturer 
producing  all  his  raw  product  to  be  worked  up 
into  the  finished  article:  he  makes  the  profit 
on  the  raw  product,  saves  the  middlemen's 
profits,  and  then  makes  a  profit  on  the  finished 
stuff." 

"That's  the  way  it  looks  to  me,"  agreed  Joe. 

"  Better  talk  to  'em  about  what  we  came  over 
here  for?"  Tom  reminded  his  father. 

"Oh  yes.  Well,  I've  got  a  proposition  to 
make  to  you  and  Joe,  Mr.  Weston." 

"All  right,  go  ahead." 

"I  want  to  learn  to  be  a  farmer!"  Tom  con- 
fided. 

"That's  it,"  added  Mr.  Ralston.  "Tom  is 
very  greatly  taken  with  country  life.  He  has 
never  been  healthy  or  strong  in  the  city.  In 
the  two  months  we've  been  here  he  looks  better 
than  I  have  ever  seen  him.  He  wants  to  stay 
the  year  through,  and  I  want  him  to." 

"I'm  glad  he's  going  to  stay — hated  to  think 
of  his  leaving,"  said  Joe. 

"I've  got  that  big  plantation,  and  I  don't 
know  what  to  do  with  it,"  continued  Mr. 
Ralston.  "I  can't  handle  it.  Major  Dean  has 
kindly  helped  me  get  the  crops  off  and  plan  some 
for  spring,  but  when  he  goes  I  will  be  utterly 
at  sea." 

"It's  a  good  place.  Major  Dean  made  lots 
**5 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

of  money  off  it,  an'  his  daddy  got  rich  there  in 
slavery  times,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

"So,  as  I  told  you,  it's  my  idea  to  close  up 
my  active  business  affairs  and  come  here  to 
live  in  the  fall  and  winter  and  spring,  at  all 
events.  But  it  will  take  more  than  two  years 
for  me  to  fix  things  so  that  I  can  let  go  of  active 
business/' 

"Well,  sir?" 

"And  meanwhile  Tom  wants  to  learn  as 
much  as  possible  about  farming.  I'll  just  leave 
Mrs.  Ralston  and  the  little  girls  down  here, 
and  I  want  to  put  Tom  in  charge  of  Joe  as  his 
tutor  in  agriculture." 

"And  that's  what  I  want  to  do,  too!"  asserted 
Tom. 

Mr.  Weston  considered,  gravely. 

"I  don't  see  no  objection,"  he  answered. 
"Do  you,  Joe?" 

"I  like  Tom  mighty  well,"  said  Joe,  "but 
I've  got  some  important  work  to  do  myself. 
You  know,  pa,  we've  got  to  pay  this  place  out. 
And  I  want  to  win  that  state  prize  this  year — 
the  prize  on  Corn  Club  work.  It's  a  scholarship 
in  the  best  agricultural  college  in  the  West.  I 
don't  see  how  I  can  spare  the  time." 

"Oh,  that  will  be  easy,  then,"  assured  Mr. 
Ralston.  "I  don't  want  you  to  give  up  your 
work  at  all.     On  the  contrary,  I  want  you  to 

186 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

go  right  ahead  with  it.  I  merely  want  the 
privilege  of  having  Tom  associate  with  you  and 
watch  you  and  pick  up  information  from  you — " 

"And  help  work,  too!"  interrupted  Tom. 

"Why,  that  will  be  easy,  then,"  said  Joe 
Weston. 

"I  expect  to  pay  you  for  it.  I  am  willing  to 
mail  you  a  check  for  thirty  dollars  each  month 
for  a  year.  At  the  end  of  the  year,  if  everything 
is  all  right  and  Tom  wants  to  keep  on,  I'll 
let  you  two  chaps  try  your  hand  running  the 
plantation,  and  I'll  pay  you,  Joe,  fifty  dollars 
a  month  next  year.     How  does  that  suit?" 

"I'm  agreeable." 

"If  it  suits  Joe  it  suits  me,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

"All  right;  we'll  just  date  the  contract  from 
January — Tom  has  learned  a  lot  since  then  from 
Joe-" 

"Oh, here, now — I  didn't  think  I  was  teaching 
then!"  objected  Joe. 

"That's  part  of  the  game.  He  has  learned  a 
lot  just  the  same,  and  here  is  thirty  dollars  for 
that  last  month — "  Mr.  Ralston  held  out  three 
ten-dollar  bills. 

"But  it  was  mostly  hunting  and  rambling 
around  and  having  fun,"  said  Joe.  He  did  not 
think  he  had  earned  the  money. 

"That  is  the  way  I  want  it  to  keep  up.  I 
want  Tom  to  enter  your  life  here  just  like  a 

187 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

brother  would.  Only,  I  want  you  to  bear  in 
mind  that  I  wish  him  to  get  the  benefit  of  what 
you  know,  and  lose  no  opportunity  to  inform 
him  about  everything  pertaining  to  country 
life  and  agriculture.  And  he  is  to  work,  too. 
I  will  instruct  him  as  to  that." 

"Is  that  all  right  with  you,  Tom?"  inquired 
Joe,  gravely. 

"Yes,  school-teacher!"  mimicked  Tom. 

"Here, now;  cut  that  out!"  suggested  Joe, with 
dignity.  "This  is  a  business  matter.  We  are 
going  along — if  we  go — just  like  we  have  been 
doing,  only  I  am  going  to  tell  you  all  I  know 
and  see  that  you  learn  it — or  we  don't  go  into 
this  thing  at  all." 

"That's  good!  I  agree  to  that;  it's  all  right 
with  me,"  said  Tom,  dropping  his  foolishness. 
The  two  boys  shook  hands  on  the  trade.  Mr. 
Ralston  was  greatly  pleased  at  the  arrangement. 

"I've  ordered  a  private  telephone  -  line  put 
in  between  this  place  and  ours  so  you  boys  can 
keep  in  closer  touch,  and  it  will  be  extended 
to  town  for  the  convenience  and  protection  it 
affords." 

"Glad  of  that,"  said  Mr.  Weston.  "Will 
save  hauling  stuff  to  town  only  to  find  the  prices 
ain't  right  —  save  lots  of  time  and  loss,  too. 
Then  it's  a  protection  and  help  in  case  of  sickness 
or  fire  or  such." 

i$8 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"I  don't  see  why  there  are  not  more  telephone- 
lines  in  the  country,"  said  Mr.  Ralston.  "They 
are  needed  there  just  as  much  as  in  the  cities." 

"And,  Joe,  that  bay  pony  will  be  for  your  use 
at  all  times.  Just  telephone  over  and  the  lot- 
boy  will  bring  her,  or  you  can  keep  her  here, 
just  as  you  choose.  You  know  I  have  that 
new  dapple-gray  one,"  said  Tom. 

"I  intended  to  mention  that,"  said  Mr. 
Ralston.  "That  is  the  arrangement  I  have 
made.  It  will  save  lots  of  time  and,  I  hope, 
give  you  some  pleasure  too,  Joe." 

"It  certainly  will.  I  have  always  wanted  a 
horse  to  ride.  It  is  fine!"  His  eyes  glowed 
with  happiness. 

"Now,  I  want  you  boys  to  have  all  the  fun 
you  can,  but  at  the  same  time,  Tom,  I  want 
you  to  understand  that  there  is  a  purpose 
underneath  all  this,  and  I  want  you  to  learn  all 
you  can.     Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  sir."  ' 

"And  where  Joe  tells  you  to  pitch  in  and 
help  with  the  work  you  must  do  that.  I  want 
you  to  be  made  strong  and  hardy,  and  that 
will  help.     Understand?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  now  it  is  all  arranged.  Bear  those 
things  in  mind,"  said  Tom's  father;  and  Tom 
knew  he  meant  just  what  he  said, 

189 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"The  time  is  getting  pretty  short  for  fun," 
observed  Joe  Weston.  "In  less  than  three 
weeks  we'll  have  to  get  right  down  to  work — 
spring  is  beginning  to  open  up." 

"Yes,  and  I've  got  to  get  back  to  my  factory 
soon  also.  Can  we  get  up  one  or  two  more 
outings  before  I  go  and  the  rest  of  you  get  down 
to  business?"  inquired  Mr.  Ralston,  anxiously. 
"I  never  did  have  any  fun  before,  and  I  like  it." 

"It  is  getting  late  in  the  season,"  reflected 
Joe,  "but  we  might  start  a  deer-hunt." 

"The  very  thing.  I'd  like  it  immensely. 
I've  never  hunted  anything  but  dollars — and 
they  are  sort  of  dear!"  The  crowd  had  a  laugh 
at  his  little  joke. 

"I've  never  hunted  deer  myself,"  said  Joe 
Weston,  "but  I  reckon  Uncle  Jeff  can  get  up  a 
hunt  for  us.  Suppose  we  walk  down  to  his 
cabin  and  see  him." 

"We'll  just  do  that  very  thing!"  assented 
Tom  Ralston;  and  the  two  boys,  accompanied 
by  Mr.  Ralston,  started. 

"I'll  stop  by  and  hire  Link,  that  colored  boy, 
to  come  up  here  and  take  my  place  for  a  week  or 
so;  I'll  pay  him  out  of  my  teaching-money," 
said  Joe. 

"Wish  you  would,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 
"  There's  a  powerful  heap  to  do."  He  appeared 
relieved  at  the  prospect  of  having  help. 

190 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  going  to  leave  you  in  the  lurch 
and  let  the  work  on  the  place  suffer  while  I 
am  off  having  f un, ' '  assured  Joe.  ' '  I '11  pay  Link 
out  of  my  salary  as  'professor'  to  Tom." 

Joe,  Mr.  Ralston,  and  Tom  trudged  down  the 
Pigeon  Roost  road  the  half-mile  to  Uncle  Jeff's 
house,  the  while  carrying  on  a  lively  discussion 
about  farm  crops. 

"I  don't  think  I'll  be  able  to  take  that  job 
next  year,  looking  after  your  place,"  said  Joe, 
finally. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter — not  enough  pay? 
I'll  make  it  sixty  dollars  a  month,  then,"  Mr. 
Ralston  announced. 

"No,  sir." 

"Seventy?" 

Joe  shook  his  head  negatively. 

"It  ain't  the  money,  Mr.  Ralston.  I've  just 
been  thinking  it  over — but  that  looks  like  a 
lot  of  money  to  me  now." 

"It  is  very   good  pay  for   a   boy  "of   your 

"Age  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  responded 
Joe  Weston,  promptly.  "I  know  how  to  farm 
to  a  certain  extent.  If  I  didn't  know  how  you 
wouldn't  have  made  that  offer  to  me,  would 
you?" 

Mr.  Ralston  was  surprised. 

"N-no — can't  say  as  I  would."  The  matter 
191 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

was  simmering  down  to  a  sure-enough  business 
discussion. 

"  And  the  knowledge  I  have — and  that  means 
applying  it — is  all  there  is  worth  paying  me  for — 
isn't  that  true?"  Joe  persisted,  seriously. 

"That  is  a  fact." 

"And  my  knowledge  is  my  capital,  just  like 
that  big  factory  of  yours  and  the  money  you 
have  to  run  it  is  yours." 

"That's  a  fact — no  difference."  The  man 
eyed  him  quizzically. 

"Well,  now,  you  were  telling  me  the  other 
day  about  how  you  started  in  a  little  one-horse 
shop  and  kept  enlarging  it  by  putting  capital 
back  into  it  until  it  grew  to  what  you  have  now." 

Mr.  Ralston  nodded  assent. 

"It  looks  like  just  the  same  situation  with 
me,  Mr.  Ralston.  My  knowledge  is  in  the  same 
fix  as  your  factory  when  it  started — mighty 
small.  But  I  am  going  to  build  it  up  and  make 
it  bring  me  bigger  returns." 

"How  are  you  going  to  build  it,  Joe?" 

"Keep  enlarging  by  putting  profits  back  into 
it  and  branching  out.  I  know  how  to  grow 
cotton  and  corn;  but  how  to  make  the  most 
cotton  and  the  most  corn  at  the  least  cost,  then 
how  to  turn  them  into  the  greatest  profit — 
those  are  some  of  the  things  I  want  to  know  to 
enlarge  on." 

192 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"That  is  a  good  resolution." 

"And  I  read  once  that  one  of  the  big  meat- 
packers  said  that  the  meat  he  sold  merely 
paid  expenses,  and  the  profit  was  in  the  by- 
products— " 

"The  what?"  inquired  Tom,  who  had  been 
taking  it  all  in. 

"The  by-products,  son,"  answered  Mr. 
Ralston.  "For  instance,  saving  all  the  hair  and 
selling  it,  the  bristles  of  pigs,  making  the  hoofs 
and  horns  into  glue,  selling  the  hides,  utilizing 
the  blood  and  refuse  for  'tankage/  sold  for 
fertilizer;  grinding  the  bones  into  bone-meal 
for  fertilizer,  canning  the  tongues,  sweetbreads, 
and  working  up  the  trimmings  into  potted 
meat;  rendering  the  hog  fat  into  lard  and  the 
tallow  into  a  cooking-compound ;  using  the  other 
grease  in  making  soap — oh,  worlds  of  ways." 

"And  most  of  the  profit  is  there?"  asked  Tom. 
1      "I  am  told  it  is.    I  know  in  my  own  factory 
some  of  the  by-products  give  the  largest  re- 
turns," answered  his  father. 

"So,"  continued  Joe  Weston,  "I  thought  the 
same  rules  ought  to  apply  to  a  farm:  a  farm  is 
a  sort  of  factory.  The  cotton  and  corn,  the 
staples,  ought  to  pay  expenses.  The  waste  and 
the  by-products  ought  to  make  the  money." 

"What  are  they?"  inquired  Mr.  Ralston, 
interested. 

13  193 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"I  don't  know,  exactly,' '  answered  Joe. 
"That's  what  I  want  to  find  out.  They  know 
more  about  those  things  up  in  the  Middle  West. 
Those  folks  have  been  studying  farming  for 
years.  We  have  just  been  drifting  along  down 
here." 

"How  are  you  going  to  get  that  knowledge, 
Joe?" 

"  That's  what  I'm  coming  to — and  the  reason 
why  I  can't  take  that  job  from  you  next  year. 
I'm  going  to  win  that  state  prize  scholarship. 
It  is  in  the  biggest  and  most  progressive  agri- 
cultural school  in  the  Central  West." 

"I  think  you're  wise,  Joe — to  add  to  your 
capital  of  knowledge,"  said  Mr.  Ralston. 

"I'll  save  most  of  this  money  you  pay  me 
for  Tom,  and  give  it  to  pa  to  hire  Link  in  my 
place  while  I'm  gone — and  give  him  what  money 
over  what  I  need  that  I  make  off  my  corn  this 
year  to  help  pay  for  the  place." 

"Suppose  you  don't  win  that  scholarship?" 
inquired  Tom. 

"I'm  not  going  to  fail.  I  am  bound  to  win: 
I've  made  up  my  mind  to  win!"  exclaimed  Joe, 
earnestly. 

"You'll  win,  then!"  asserted  Mr.  Ralston, 
slapping  him  on  the  back,  as  they  stopped  at 
Uncle  Jeff's  front  gate  and  called  him  to  arrange 
about  the  deer-hunt. 

194 


CHAPTER  XX 

"\  71  TELL,  suh,  dat  sho  is  funny !"  exclaimed 

V  V  Uncle  Jeff,  when  the  object  of  the  visit 
was  explained. 

"What's  funny?"  inquired  Joe. 

"'Bout  wantin'  a  deer-hunt.  No  longer  'n 
las'  night  Unk'  Choctaw  dropped  in,  an'  he 
'lowed  he  seed  signs  of  deer  down  in  de 
swamps." 

"This  is  luck!"  exulted  Mr.  Ralston. 

"Yasser,  hit  sho  is,  kaze  deer  is  been  powerful 
skase  eroun'  here  fer  er  coon's  age." 

"How  long  is  that?"  asked  Tom. 

"Oh,  five  or  six  year,  I  reckon.  Looked  like 
dey  done  all  lef  de  country." 

"How  about  the  hunt,  then?"  persisted  Tom's 
father. 

"Hit  '11  be  all  right — sholy  we'll  have  it. 
Yasser,  boss.     Wen  yo'  wanter  go?" 

"The  sooner  the  better." 

"All  right,  den.  How  about  day  atter  ter- 
morry?" 

"Suits  me." 

"And  me — me  too!"  added  Joe  and  Tom, 

m 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Well,  hit's  all  settled,  den,"  announced  Uncle 
Jeff.  "I'll  see  Unk'  Choc'  dis  yer  ve'y  day, 
en  we'll  borry  some  more  dawgs.  Wid  de  dawgs 
he's  got,  en  whut  I  got,  en  'bout  fo'  mo',  we'll 
have  er  fine  pack." 

"Is  there  anything  more  for  us  to  do?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Ralston. 

"Not  er  thing  as  I  knows  of — jes'  git  yo'se'fs 
ready." 

"What  time?"  asked  Joe. 

"Oh,  long  erbout  fo'  'clock  in  de  mawnin'." 

"  My,  that's  awful  early !"  mused  Tom.  "Joe, 
you  better  come  over  and  spend  the  night 
with  me." 

"I'll  have  to.  I'd  never  get  up  that  early, 
and  we  haven't  an  alarm-clock  at  home." 

"Well,  everything  is  settled,  then?"  said  Mr. 
Ralston. 

"Yasser,  en  ef  I  lives  en  nuthin'  happens, 
I'll  be  dar  on  time,  me  en  Choc'  en  dem  yuther 
niggers  whut  won't  loan  us  de  dawgs  less'n 
dey's  'vited  too." 

"Sure;  bring  'em  along,"  suggested  Joe. 

"All  right,  den.  Yo'  kin  look  fer  me  'cordin' 
ter  de  'rangemints,  widout  fail." 

The  rest  of  the  day  at  the  Ralston  plantation 
was  spent  in  furbishing  up  guns  and  equipments 
and  getting  everything  ready. 

The  £ext  day  was  spent  largely  in  trying  tQ 
196 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

teach  Mr.  Ralston  to  hit  something  with  a  gun. 
He  knew  how  to  shoot,  but  Tom  declared  in 
a  superior  way  that  his  father  could  not  even 
hit  the  scenery. 

"  That's  pretty  hard  on  me,"  observed  Mr. 
Ralston,  gravely.  "I'm  sure  I  could  hit  a  barn 
if  it  kept  right  still — and  I  was  close  enough,' ' 
he  added. 

Tom  was  very  much  inclined  to  be  patroniz- 
ing in  his  attitude,  forgetting  that  it  was  scarce 
six  weeks  since  he  had  shot  a  gun  for  the  first 
time  himself.  By  incessant  practice  he  had  got 
to  be  a  first-rate  shot,  and  was  very  proud  of  it. 

Joe  evolved  a  scheme  to  improve  Mr.  Ral- 
ston's  marksmanship.  There  was  a  wire  clothes- 
line in  the  back  yard.  A  tin  can  was  hitched 
to  a  short  piece  of  wire  and  this  looped  over 
the  clothes-line.  Then  a  long  cord  was  attached 
to  the  can,  and  a  small  colored  boy  was  stationed 
about  a  hundred  feet  to  one  side,  out  of  danger, 
and  given  instructions  to  haul  the  line  in  as 
fast  as  he  could  when  a  signal  was  given.  At 
right  angles  to  the  boy  Mr.  Ralston  was  sta- 
tioned with  his  shotgun. 

"Haul  away!"  yelled  Joe.  The  can  slid  along 
the  line  toward  the  boy,  and  Mr.  Ralston  blazed 
at  it  first  with  one  barrel  and  then  with  the 
other.  All  ran  forward  to  inspect  the  target. 
He  never  touched  it. 

197 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"That's  all  right;  laugh  if  you  want  to.  I'll 
get  the  hang  of  this  shooting  at  a  moving  target 
yet!"  announced  Mr.  Ralston,  grimly. 

The  boy  changed  directions,  and  hauled  the 
other  way,  so  as  to  give  left  and  right  exercise. 
With  the  second  barrel  Mr.  Ralston  hit  the 
can! 

"Oh  yes,  I've  got  it  now:  the  scheme  is  to 
shoot  just  a  bit  in  front  of  the  object.  I  can 
make  it  now." 

Fifty  shells  were  expended  by  the  enthusiastic 
pupil,  and  he  had  to  stop  on  account  of  soreness 
of  his  shoulder,  unaccustomed  to  the  recoil  of 
a  gun.     He  had  done  very  well  indeed. 

"Never  had  so  much  fun  in  my  life!"  he  de- 
clared to  the  boys.  "In  fact,  never  had  much 
fun  anyhow;  had  to  work  too  hard;  but  Hike 
this.  I'm  just  getting  started  having  a  good 
time." 

"Is  yo'  froo  fer  de  day?"  inquired  a  small 
boy  behind  them.  It  was  the  boy  who  hauled 
the  can. 

"No,  I  am  not.  I'm  going  to  try  some  more 
after  dinner.  Here's  a  quarter  for  you.  Go 
find  some  more  tin  cans  and  pile  'em  in  that 
ditch  down  yonder.  Then  when  we  are  ready 
to  shoot,  one  of  the  boys  will  yell;  you  throw 
a  can  in  the  air,  and  I'll  shoot  at  it.  You  will 
be  safe ;  that  gulley  is  deep  enough  for  you  to 

198 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

stand  up  in  it.  And  I'll  give  you  another 
quarter  this  evening." 

The  small  darky  scampered  away  to  begin 
collecting  the  tin  cans,  overjoyed  at  the  chance 
to  make  more  money  than  he  had  ever  dreamed 
was  in  existence. 

The  afternoon  practice  was  equally  as  satis- 
factory. That  night  Mrs.  Ralston  anointed 
the  bruised  shoulder  with  more  liniment  and 
gave  it  a  good  rubbing. 

"By  George,  Mary,  I  can  hit  'em — I  sure 
can  hit  'em!"  he  exulted.  "Yes  sirree!  I  hit 
six  out  of  every  ten  thrown,  and  for  a  green 
hand  like  myself  that  is  some  shooting — if  I 
do  have  to  say  it!" 

"Your  arm  and  shoulder  are  going  to  be  so 
sore  you  can't  lift  a  gun  to-morrow,"  predicted 
Mrs.  Ralston.  "You  went  at  it  too  hard  all  of  a 
sudden." 

"Maybe  so,  but  I've  got  the  hang  of  it  now, 
and  maybe  I  won't  have  some  fun  hunting  next 
winter!" 

Everybody  went  to  bed  early  in  order  to 
get  a  good  night's  rest  before  the  hunt. 

In  the  chill  dawn  Uncle  Rube  and  Choctaw 
and  two  other  negroes,  accompanied  by  a  pack 
of  dogs,  showed  up  at  the  appointed  time. 
Major  Dean  concluded  to  go  too,  and  he  turned 
out  in  hunting-regalia  with  the  rest  of  the  party. 

199 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

The  start  was  made,  on  foot  this  time,  as  this 
was  to  be  a  "  drive  hunt" — that  is,  the  hunters 
would  take  their  stands  at  favored  places,  and 
the  dogs  and  negroes  would  endeavor  to  run 
the  deer  in  that  direction. 

Mr.  Ralston  was  immensely  proud  of  Tom's 
prowess  as  a  hunter,  and  proposed  to  share  the 
"  stand"  with  him.  Sure  enough,  his  shoulder 
was  badly  swollen,  and  he  could  not  lift  the 
heavy  twelve-gage  shotgun  to  firing  position. 
Regretfully,  he  carried  along  a  little,  light 
sixteen-gage,  and  wondered  if  he  could  manage 
to  get  it  to  that  sore  shoulder  in  time  to  hit 
anything. 

Since  the  bear-hunt  Mr.  Ralston  had  sent  to 
the  city  and  purchased  two  fine  bowie-knives 
and  presented  them  to  the  boys.  Each  wore 
one  proudly  at  his  belt . 

The  party  approached  the  rustling  cane- 
brakes  in  the  faint  dawn.  There  was  consider- 
able fog  and  mist  in  those  lowlands,  and  progress 
was  slow.     Finally  the  party  was  placed. 

Tom  and  his  father  were  stationed  at  an 
eminence  overlooking  the  long  decline  to  Dead 
Man's  Dump  and  at  a  point  where  four  paths 
converged  into  the  larger  trail  to  the  water  of  the 
bayou. 

Mr.  Ralston  decided  to  take  his  stand  about 
a  hundred  yards  farther  back,  where  a  cross- 

200 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

trail  through  the  cane  joined  one  of  the  main 
ones.  Joe  Weston  went  on  with  Uncle  Jeff  and 
Choctaw  and  the  negroes,  and  took  a  stand  at 
another  favorable  place.  Then  the  men  with 
the  dogs  pushed  on  farther  down  the  edge  of 
the  swamp  to  pick  up  the  trail  below  and  drive 
the  game  toward  the  hunters.  The  major  went 
farther  down  yet,  and  as  a  seasoned  deer-hunter 
picked  his  own  position. 

It  was  half  or  three-quarters  of  an  hour  before 
faintly  in  the  distance  could  be  heard  the  notes 
of  the  hunters*  horn  sounded  by  Uncle  Jeff, 
and  fainter  yet  the  thrilling  sound  of  dogs 
giving  mouth  on  a  trail.  Then  horn  and  dogs 
ceased  to  be  heard,  and  silence  reigned. 

Day  dawned  slowly,  for  the  sky  was  overcast 
with  the  rising  mist.  A  squirrel  barked  in  the 
distance  and  it  sounded  unnaturally  loud.  Busy 
little  birds  scarcely  bigger  than  one's  thumb 
scuttled  around  in  the  trees,  up  and  down  the 
trunks,  with  an  utter  disregard  for  equilibrium, 
calling  excitedly,  "  Chip-chip-  chip-arrp-chip!" 

A  pair  of  blue-jays  squalled  and  quarreled  from 
one  of  the  cypress  trees  near  Tom  and  his  father. 
A  rabbit  hopped  out  in  the  path  in  fine  shooting- 
distance,  and  Tom  instinctively  threw  his  gun 
to  his  shoulder  before  he  remembered  that  the 
gun  was  loaded  with  buckshot  and  a  charge 
of  those  "blue  whistlers' '  would  leave  scarcely 

201 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

enough  of  Brer  Rabbit  to  be  worth  picking 
up.  So  the  rabbit  departed  in  peace  and  leisure, 
stopping  to  nibble  at  a  bit  of  cane  here  and  there. 

1  'Tom,  I  hear  something  curious  over  there!" 
called  his  father. 

"Hush!  You  want  to  scare  all  the  game  out 
of  the  swamp?"  cautioned  Tom,  disgustedly,  in 
as  low  a  voice  as  possible. 

"But  it's  a  strange  sort  of  moaning  and 
mooing — " 

"Well,  go  see  what  it  is,  then — anything  to 
stop  this  hollering.  Deer  will  take  the  other 
direction  if  they  hear  us." 

Mr.  Ralston  gingerly  advanced  around  a 
corner  of  the  path  and  was  hidden  from  view 
by  the  tall,  dense  cane.  Next  thing  Tom  heard 
was  a  faint,  frantic  bleat. 

"M-m-m-a-a-a!" 

"Young  calf  some  old  wild  range  cow  has 
hidden  down  here  in  this  cane-brake,"  thought 
Tom,  chuckling  to  himself  at  the  idea  of  his 
father  getting  excited  over  a  common  little 
calf. 

"  Moo-oo-er !    Baw-w-w-w !" 

There  was  a  noise  as  of  an  elephant  crashing 
through  the  cane,  and  Mr.  Ralston,  hatless  and 
gunless,  his  eyes  protruding  and  mouth  open, 
tore  around  the  corner,  sprinting  his  level  best. 

"Baw-w-w-w-er!"  bawled  the  enraged  mother 
202 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

cow — an  old  "  muley,"  or  hornless  animal,  career- 
ing right  behind  the  invader  of  the  sylvan  quiet, 
head  down,  tail  up,  and  mad  clear  through. 

"Ugh!"  grunted  Mr,  Ralston,  as  she  bunted 
him  about  ten  feet  along  from  the  rear — but  he 
lit  running. 

"Hey,  Tom,  help!  Ugh!"  yelled  his  father, 
ending  with  a  heartfelt  grunt  as  she  boosted 
him  again  with  all  her  strength. 

"Ma-a-a-a!"  bleated  a  plaintive  voice  behind, 
as  a  wabbly -legged  little  spotted  calf  came 
galloping  unsteadily  after  its  mother,  who  imme- 
diately thought  her  enemy  in  front  was  responsi- 
ble for  the  wail  of  her  baby,  and  she  renewed 
her  butting  with  the  utmost  enthusiasm. 

"Hey,  Tom!  Hel— ugh!"  grunted  Mr.  Ral- 
ston, galloping  past  and  being  boosted  at  nearly 
every  step. 

Tom  was  so  convulsed  with  laughter  he  could 
hardly  stand  or  get  his  breath.  The  cow,  being 
hornless,  could  not  damage  his  father  severely, 
and  Tom  was  enjoying  the  excruciatingly  funny 
sight  to  the  utmost. 

What  if  the  three  thousand  employees  of  the 
Ralston  Iron  Works  could  see  their  severe  and 
highly  respected  and  respectable  boss  now! 

Mr,  Ralston  swerved  to  the  left  suddenly,  and 
the  cow  charged  on  by  him.  She  recovered 
quickly,  wheeled,  and  came  at  him  again.     He 

203 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

was  running  toward  Tom  now,  and  Tom  was  in 
danger  from  the  old  animal,  for  the  calf  was 
standing  near,  bawling. 

"  Shoot  'er,  Tom,  shoot  'er!"  gasped  his  father, 
about  winded  from  his  lively  run,  as  he  nimbly- 
skipped  behind  a  tree. 

"Oh  no.  Poor  old  sister,  she  thought  you 
were  after  that  precious  calf  of  hers,"  answered 
Tom,  picking  up  a  piece  of  limb  about  four  feet 
long.  He  side-stepped  her  charge  and  deftly 
whacked  Old  Muley  across  the  nose. 

That  was  enough.  It  took  all  the  fight  out 
of  her,  for  the  nose  is  one  of  the  most  sensitive 
parts  of  a  cow.  With  a  dismayed  snort  she 
careered  up  the  path,  conveying  her  bawling 
offspring  to  the  deeper  recesses  of  the  forest. 

Tom  leaned  against  the  tree  and  laughed  until 
he  was  so  weak  he  could  hardly  stand.  The 
tears  ran  down  his  face.  His  father  stood 
grinning  sheepishly,  with  disheveled  hair,  and 
rubbing  himself  where  her  hard  head  had  been 
applied  so  forcibly. 

"Better  go  get  your  gun  and  hat?"  suggested 
Tom,  as  soon  as  he  could  control  himself  enough 
to  talk. 

"Look  here,  now,  Tom.  If  you  tell  this,  the 
folks  will  worry  me  to  death — "  began  his  father, 
in  a  wheedling  tone. 

"It's  too  good  to  keep!"  roared  Tom  again. 
204 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"  Oh,  say  now,  here — it's  one  on  me  all  right — " 

"I  never  expect  to  see  anything  as  funny  as 
long  as  I  live,"  announced  Tom,  wiping  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  be  a  good  sport  now.  Say,  Tom,  don't 
tell  this  on  me,  old  fellow — " 

"And  what  would  the  folks  at  the  works  say 
if  they  knew  it?"  said  Tom,  musingly. 

"Say — gee — gosh!  Now,  Tom,  look  here — 
I'll  buy  you  the  best  gun  and  hunting-outfit 
to  be  had  in  New  Orleans  if  you'll  keep  your 
mouth  shut — " 

"It's  worth  a  heap.  Why,  I  can  have  fifty 
dollars'  worth  of  fun  every  time  I  tell  it!"  sug- 
gested Tom. 

"And — and  I'll  throw  in  a  new  saddle — and 
a  watch  and  a  hat  and — anything  else  you  want. 
Just  name  it." 

"No,  I  guess  that  '11  do!"  said  Tom.  "That's 
a  trade." 

"Honor  bright,  you'll  not  tell?" 

"Sure.     Better  get  back  on  your  stand  now." 

"Heavens,  no!  If  an  old  muley  cow  can  run 
me  all  over  this  swamp  and  nearly  butt  me  to 
death,  the  next  thing  a  rabbit  '11  come  around 
there  and  kick  me.  No  sirree,  I'm  going  to 
stay  here  and  make  my  son  protect  me — I'm  too 
new  at  this  hunting  game !"  laughed  Mr.  Ralston, 
seating  himself  on  the  gnarled  root  of  the  live* 
pak  after  recovering  his  hat  and  gun* 

205 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Once  more  the  forest  grew  still.  On  the 
breeze,  as  faintly  as  in  a  dream,  once  in  a  while 
would  be  heard  the  echo  of  the  music  of  the 
trailing  hounds. 

Then  there  was  a  fusillade  of  shots  in  the 
distance,  a  wild  yelping  of  dogs  and  blowing  of 
horns,  then  finally  stillness  again. 

"  They've  got  something,  sure.  Sounds  like 
that  big  old  ten -gage  gun  Joe  Weston]  is 
carrying !"  excitedly  whispered  Tom  to  his 
father. 

"Not  wishing  you  any  bad  luck,  Tom,  but 
considering  what  a  rotten  poor  hunter  I  am, 
I'd  not  be  sorry  if  no  bear  or  deer  or  anything 
came  this  way.  Those  animals  are  liable  to  do 
something  to  me  just  because  I'm  an  easy  one," 
said  Mr.  Ralston. 

"Oh,  the  hunt's  not  over  yet,  and  we  are  go- 
ing to  get  something — I  feel  it  in  my  bones," 
answered  Tom. 

Once  more  a  brooding  silence  fell  over  the 
forest.  Again  the  cries  of  the  hounds  and  the 
sound  of  the  horns  mingled  with  the  voices  of 
the  negroes. 

"They've  taken  up  the  hunt  again !"  whispered 
Tom. 

The  baying  of  the  pack  gradually  became  more 
and  more  distinct,  and  the  horns  could  be  heard 
clearly, 

206 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"They  are  coming  this  way!"  Tom  confided, 
in  excitement,  to  his  father. 

He  unbreeched  his  gun  to  make  sure  that  the 
shells  were  all  right,  and  also  inspected  the  little 
sixteen-gage  carried  by  Mr.  Ralston. 

"Now,  that  gun  of  yours  is  too  light  to  do 
any  damage  with  at  long  range,"  whispered 
Tom,  "but  if  a  bear  or  deer  or  anything  of  the 
sort  comes  this  way,  and  I  get  in  close  quarters, 
you  jam  the  muzzle  of  that  gun  right  against 
him  and  pull  both  triggers,  but  don't  stand  off 
at  a  distance  and  shoot — you  are  just  as  likely 
to  get  me." 

"All  right,  I'll  be  careful,"  answered  his  father. 

Tom  drew  his  keen  new  bowie-knife,  reflec- 
tively tested  its  edge,  and,  replacing  it  in  the 
sheath,  hitched  it  around  so  as  to  be  handy 
in  case  of  an  emergency. 

The  voices  of  the  dogs  were  now  quite  dis- 
tinct and  evidently  coming  closer. 

Faintly  there  sounded  a  crashing  and  rustling 
through  the  cane  some  distance  to  the  left.  Tom 
cocked  both  barrels  and  waited,  the  weapon 
resting  easily  in  his  hands  and  ready  to  be 
brought  to  his  shoulder  on  a  second's  notice. 

The  surging  through  the  switch-cane  ceased; 
instead,  there  was  a  rhythmic  rustling  along 
the  path  where  dead  leaves  were  lying  deep — 
the  sound,  evidently,  of  an  animal  trotting. 

207 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"That's  no  bear!"  whispered  Tom,  all  excite- 
ment. 

"Hope  it  isn't  another  muley  cow,"  remarked 
his  father. 

There  was  another  rustling  of  leaves,  and  there 
bounded  into  sight  around  the  turn  of  the  path, 
not  a  hundred  yards  away,  a  magnificent  ant- 
lered  buck! 

The  deer  saw  Tom,  and  made  a  quivering 
bound,  poised  to  wheel  and  flee  into  the  cane. 
Tom  let  go  the  first  barrel. 

The  heavy  charge  of  buckshot  went  true, 
and  shocked  the  deer  to  his  haunches.  He 
recovered,  tried  to  rush  past,  and  Tom  planted 
the  other  charge  in  his  side. 

The  deer  collapsed  suddenly  in  the  path. 

"I  got  him!"  yelled  Tom,  in  exultation,  drop- 
ping his  gun  and  rushing  forward. 

With  a  last,  despairing  effort  the  monarch 
of  the  forest  staggered  to  his  feet  and  charged 
his  enemy,  catching  Tom  fair  between  the 
branching  antlers! 

Together  they  surged,  this  way  and  that,  the 
deer  trying  to  throw  him  to  the  ground  and 
gore  him,  but  Tom  kept  his  feet  with  the  agility 
of  a  wrestler.  With  his  left  hand  he  hung 
desperately  to  the  horns,  and  with  his  right  he 
clutched  for  the  bowie-knife  at  his  belt. 

Mr.  Ralston  ran  forward  with  his  gun,  and 
208 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Tom  became  more  frightened  at  that  than  he 
was  from  the  deer.  He  knew  as  long  as  he  kept 
his  feet  the  deer  could  not  gore  him,  and  he 
was  afraid  that  in  the  circling  struggle  his  father 
would  miss  the  deer  and  shoot  him. 

1 '  Leave  us  alone !  Don't  shoot  I1 '  gasped  Tom. 
'Til  get  him  now!" 

He  reached  over  the  horns  and  underneath 
the  neck,  and  drew  the  keen  bowie-knife  across 
the  neck  stretched  taut.  He  felt  the  blade  bite 
the  flesh;  there  was  a  whistling  gush  of  blood, 
and  the  deer  stood  firm  a  moment;  then  it 
staggered,  and  sank  slowly  to  the  ground,  and 
lay  quivering  in  the  path. 

Tom  dipped  his  forefinger  in  the  blood  and 
touched  his  forehead  again. 

"I've  got  a  bear  and  an  antlered  buck. 
Now  I'm  as  good  a  hunter  of  big  game  as  any- 
body!" he  exulted  to  his  father,  who  was  now 
excitedly  waving  the  gun  around  and  dancing 
about  the  deer. 

"By  George,  fine!    Fine!"  he  kept  saying. 

"Here,  shoot  those  two  loads  in  the  air — 
you'll  be  hurting  yourself  or  me!"  Tom  cau- 
tioned. "Bang!  bang!"  echoed  the  gun,  and 
Mr.  Ralston  fetched  a  whoop. 

"I  wouldn't  have  taken  the  chance  you  did 
on  that  deer  for  a  hundred  thousand  dollars!" 
announced  Mr.  Ralston,  finally. 

14  2°9 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"And  I  wouldn't  have  missed  the  chance  for 
a  thousand  dollars !"  retorted  his  son. 

He  slipped  a  couple  of  shells  in  his  gun  and, 
as  he  heard  the  horns  in  the  distance  blowing  for 
a  location  signal,  fired  both  barrels  in  the  air, 
and  then  repeated. 

In  less  than  ten  minutes  Uncle  Jeff  and  Uncle 
Rube  and  Choctaw  and  the  other  negroes  had 
arrived.  Their  eyes  opened  wide  when  they 
saw  the  magnificent  eight-pronged  buck  lying 
in  the  path. 

"My  Lawd  ha'  mussy!"  exclaimed  Uncle 
Jeff.  "Yo'  sho  is  de  luckiest  hunter  I  ever 
seed!  Dat's  de  fust  full-pronged  buck  deer  I 
has  seed  in  dese  diggin's  fer  twenty  year!" 

"What  was  all  that  shooting  about — anybody 
else  get  anything  at  all?"  inquired  Tom. 

"Yasser,  de  major  got  er  b'ar — not  such  er 
tumble  big  'un,  neither.  He  didn't  fight  like 
dat  yuther  'un  yo'  got.  Dis  yer  wuz  er  cow- 
ardly b'ar — never  hurt  er  single  dawg,  en  clim' 
er  tree." 

"Why  was  all  that  shooting,  then?"  asked 
Tom. 

"Ter  git  'im  out  er  dat  tree.  He  wuz  so  fur 
up  de  guns  didn'  hurt  'im  much,  en  we  didn' 
have  time  ter  cut  de  tree  down.  Dat  'ar  b'ar 
got  enough  lead  shot  inter  'im  ter  sink  er  steam- 
boat." 

2IO 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Two  shots  were  heard  in  the  distance. 

"Dat's  Mister  Joe  Weston — I  knows  de 
'spression  er  dat  gun!"  said  Uncle  Rube. 

"Yeah,  dat's  in  de  direcshun  er  his  stand," 
assented  Jeff. 

"Wonder  what  he  is  shooting  at?"  mused 
Tom. 

Two  more  shots  were  heard,  then  two  more. 

"Come  on — dat's  er  signal  ter  come  ter  ,im!" 
said  Rube ;  and  they  started  in  the  direction  from 
which  the  shots  were  heard,  first  discharging 
their  own  guns  to  let  Joe  know  they  were  coming. 

"Wonder  why  he  wants  us  to  come  to  him?" 
said  Mr.  Ralston. 

"No  tellin\  He  maybe  hurt;  he  maybe  kill 
big  game  and  want  us  to  help  move  hit,"  said 
Choctaw,  as  they  trotted,  Indian  file,  along 
through  the  cane  in  the  little  trail. 

Finally  they  fired  one  gun,  and  it  was  answered 
by  a  hail  from  Joe.  He  had  moved  a  bit  from 
his  stand. 

"What  you  got?"  called  Tom. 

"Oh,  nothing,  except  an  old  panther  about  as 
big  as  a  calf.  Old  scoundrel  was  fixing  to  jump 
down  on  me  from  that  limb  yonder."  Joe 
indicated  a  big,  low-hanging  branch  of  a  live- 
oak  with  lots  of  Spanish  moss  drooping  from 
it  and  above  it.  The  trunk  of  the  tree  came 
up  out  of  a  tangle  of  vines. 

211 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Well,  I  vow!"  Jeff  surveyed  the  limp 
form  of  the  creature.  "He  sho  is  a  big  'un. 
Hit's  a  wonder  he  didn'  git  yo'." 

"Just  the  merest  accident  in  the  world  that 
he  didn't,"  said  Joe.  "I  was  standing  right 
under  that  oak  for  a  long  time.  I  never  heard 
a  thing,  and  the  old  rascal  was  slipping  up 
on  me  all  the  time.  He  couldn't  jump  from 
the  ground,  on  account  of  that  thicket  of 
vines. 

"I  heard  a  little  noise  over  this  way — may 
have  been  a  rabbit  or  a  bird  in  the  leaves. 
At  any  rate,  I  walked  right  over  there  by  that 
beech  where  I  could  see  better — had  my  gun 
cocked,  of  course.  It's  about  fifty  feet  there 
from  here.  The  noise  stopped,  and  I  looked 
around,  heard  a  twig  drop,  and  I  saw  this  old 
rascal  crouched  on  that  limb,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  me.  He  was  just  ready  to  spring  as  soon  as 
I  came  back  in  reach. 

"I  did  not  even  take  aim,  but  fired  by  direc- 
tion, with  my  gun-butt  in  the  crook  of  my 
arm.  He  sprang  when  the  shot  hit  him,  and 
you  see  where  he  lies.  He  lit  half-way  the 
distance,  and  tried  to  spring  again,  and  I  got 
him  in  the  head  with  the  other  barrel." 

"You  certainly  have  had  a  narrow  escape!" 
Mr.  Ralston  heaved  a  sigh.  "I  had  no  idea 
that  there  were  such  creatures  in  these  woods,' ? 

213 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Oh  yes,  sir,  right  smart  of  'em,"  corrected 
Rube. 

"Yo'  sho  is  got  off  by  de  skin  of  yo'  teef!" 
observed  old  Choctaw.  "Dis  ole  devil  would 
'a'  lit  on  yo'  en  put  his  teef  in  yo'  froat,  en  drunk 
yo'  blood — en  den  made  dinner  off'n  yo*  too. 
Yo'  sho'  is  lucky,  boy!" 

"Yes,  I  think  so,"  agreed  Joe  Weston.  "It 
did  not  scare  me  at  first,  but  I'm  shaking  yet, 
every  time  I  think  of  the  narrow  escape  I 
had." 

"Well,  boys,  le's  tie  his  feet  tergedder  en 
tote  'im  whar  dat  big  deer  is ;  den  we'll  skin  'im. 
I  reckon  yo'  wants  his  hide,  don't  yo',  Mister 
Joe?" 

"I  sure  do." 

"Here,  one  of  you  boys  hoof  it  back  to  the 
house  and  tell  the  lot -boy  to  hitch  up  the  spring  - 
wagon  and  come  as  far  down  in  the  swamp  as 
he  can.  We've  got  to  get  that  bear  and  deer 
home.     Here's  a  dollar — hurry,  now!" 

Mr.  Ralston  handed  the  coin  to  one  of  the 
strange  negroes  who  had  contributed  dogs  to 
the  pack,  and  the  darky  started  on  a  trot  for 
the  house  two  miles  distant. 

The  feet  of  the  panther  were  tied  together,  a 
stout  pole  was  cut,  and  the  animal  slung  on  ;.t. 
Then  the  ends  of  the  pole  were  hoisted  onto  the 
shoulders  of  the  negroes.     Arriving  at  the  place 

213 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

where  the  deer  was,  signal  guns  were  fired  to 
locate  Major  Dean. 

No  answer. 

"Come  on!  We  got  to  go  down  dar — got  to 
bring  dat  b'ar  in  too.  I  never  seed  de  like  er 
game  we's  gittin'  dis  day!"  observed  Jeff. 

After  a  quarter-of-a-mile  pull  through  the 
cane  the  party  came  out  at  the  spot  where 
the  major  had  killed  the  bear.  The  bear  was 
there  still;  and  on  a  dry  hillock,  on  a  bed  of 
Spanish  moss  he  had  pulled  from  the  low- 
hanging  branches,  was  the  major,  snoozing 
comfortably ! 

"Hey,  there,  wake  up!"  said  Mr.  Ralston, 
prodding  him  with  his  foot. 

"What— huh— hey— Yankees  comin'?  Oh!" 
The  major  sat  up  and  grinned  foolishly. 

"Lordy  me!  I  thought  for  a  minute  it  was 
war-times  again.  I  dozed  off  and  heard  a  lot 
of  shooting,  and  I  was  dreaming  I  was  up  in 
Virginia  again  and  resting  after  an  engagement. 
And  I  thought  the  Yanks  were  about  to  get 
me!"  The  jolly  old  fellow  joined  in  the  laugh 
at  his  own  expense.  He  was  amazed  to  hear  of 
Joe's  adventure  with  the  panther  and  the  luck 
Tom  had  had  with  the  deer. 

"We've  certainly  got  to  have  a  barbecue,  with 
all  this  venison  and  bear  meat!"  he  announced. 
"  Soon's  we  get  the  meat  dressed  and  at  home, 

214 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

I'll  make  the  arrangements.  Never  seen  or  been 
at  a  barbecue,  have  you  Tom — you  and  Mr. 
Ralston?"  They  shook  their  heads  in  negation. 
"Well,  anybody  who  hasn't  eaten  barbecued 
meat  has  something  to  live  for.  And,  speaking 
of  eating,  let's  be  getting  toward  home.  I'm 
hungry."     It  was  two  o'clock. 

"I'm  ready,  "announced  Mr.  Ralston. 

"Me,  too — and  me!"  added  the  boys. 

"There's  a  short  cut  through  here — save  us 
half  a  mile  going  home.  I  know  these  swamps 
like  I  do  the  inside  of  the  house.  You  niggers 
get  that  meat  ready  and  skin  that  panther,  and 
I'll  go  have  a  shote  pig  slaughtered  and  have 
the  fires  started  in  the  pits,  and  to-morrow  we'll 
have  a  barbecue  right,"  said  the  major. 

The  darkies  started  back  to  the  assembly 
point  with  the  bear,  which  was  a  half -grown 
cub,  and  the  other  hunters  followed  the  major 
as  he  deftly  threaded  his  way  out  of  the  thicket 
of  cane  and  toward  the  open  fields. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

EVERYBODY  slept  late  next  morning  ex- 
cept the  major.  That  seasoned  veteran 
of  many  a  hunt  was  up  in  the  early  dawn, 
making  further  arrangements  for  the  barbecue. 

"Well,  the  meat's  on!"  he  announced,  coming 
back  to  the  house  as  the  party  was  assembling 
for  a  very  late  breakfast. 

"What  I'm  interested  in  is  breakfast  right 
now,"  said  Mr.  Ralston.  "Never  slept  as 
soundly  in  my  life — and  never  was  as  hungry 
as  I  am  right  now." 

"Better  go  slow  on  the  breakfast,  all  you 
hunters,  so  you  can  do  full  justice  to  the  barbe- 
cue," cautioned  the  major.  "This  is  an  extra- 
fine  barbecue — big  variety  of  stuff.  I've  taken 
the  liberty  of  inviting  some  of  your  neighbors, 
Mr.  Ralston.     You  ought  to  meet  them." 

"Glad  you  did.     There  is  plenty  for  all." 

"There  certainly  is.  I  sent  to  town  and  got 
a  whole  half -side  of  a  beef,  and  a  good  mutton, 
too.  Thought  we  might's  well  make  a  complete 
job  of  it." 

216 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"That's right,"  assented  Mr.  Ralston.  "Well 
have  a  regular  picnic  dinner." 

"  Did  you  let  my  folks  know,  Major?"  inquired 
Joe  Weston,  solicitously. 

"The  very  first  ones,  Joe,  and  Mr.  Weston 
and  Mrs.  Weston  and  Annie  said  they'd  be  over 
without  fail." 

"You  didn't  say  anything  about  that  panther, 
did  you  ? ' '  asked  Joe.  ' '  It  might  worry  mother, ' ' 
he  added,  thoughtfully. 

"  Nothing  more  than  that  you  had  killed  the 
biggest  panther  seen  around  here  in  twenty 
years." 

"That's  all  right,  then,"  said  Joe,  relieved. 

"I  certainly  do  hate  to  leave  this  table," 
sighed  Tom,  regretfully,  "but  I  s'pose  I'd  better. 
If  I  don't,  I'll  weaken  and  fill  up  on  wafrles  and 
such  junk  when  I  ought  to  save  that  room  for 
the  barbecue." 

"Good  idea.  Think  I'll  do  the  same,"  said 
his  father. 

"Let's  go  down  and  see  how  they  are  getting 
along?"  suggested  Joe.  No  sooner  was  the  sug- 
gestion made  than  acted  upon. 

It  was  a  fine,  crisp  day  outside.  The  breeze 
was  laden  with  the  most  delectable  odors  of  the 
cooking  meats  as  the  party  strolled  to  the  scene 
of  the  festivities  that  were  to  be. 

Alfred,  an  old  negro  celebrated  in  that  section 
217 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

as  a  barbecue  cook,  was  in  charge  of  the  affair. 
He  had  half  a  dozen  darkies  assisting  him,  and 
they  in  turn  were  assisted  by  negro  boys  and 
girls  as  "basters."  Each  had  a  cane  about 
five  feet  long  with  a  rag  swab  fastened  to  one 
end.  This  they  dipped  into  the  aromatic  bast- 
ing compound  and  kept  the  meat,  slowly  cooking 
above  the  bed  of  coals,  well  covered  with  it, 
preventing  the  meat  from  getting  dry,  and  giving 
the  proper  seasoning. 

"Well,  how's  everything?''  inquired  Mr.  Ral- 
ston of  Alfred. 

"Fine,  sah;  fine!"  he  responded,  with  enthusi- 
asm. "I  ain't  never  seen  a  fatter  lot  of  venison, 
en  dat  b'ar  meat  is  fat  an'  tender  too.  I'm 
cookin'  'em  slow  so  hit  won't  be  dried  up,  en  I 
ain'  sparin'  de  dressin'  on  'em." 

Tom  sniffed  hungrily  and  looked  for  evidences 
of  being  ready  to  serve  the  meats. 

"What  time  are  we  going  to  get  a  chance  to 
eat  some  of  this?"  he  demanded.  The  smell  of 
the  roasting  dainties  made  him  hungry,  sure 
enough. 

"We'll  start  servin'  erbout  one  er'clock,  sah!" 
answered  Alfred,  grandly. 

"Great  goodness,  and  it's  only  a  bit  after  ten 
now!     How  are  we  going  to  stand  it,  Tom?" 

"I  dunno,"  said  Tom,  hopelessly.  "If  I  stay 
around  here  I'll  be  tempted  to  snatch  some  of 

218 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

that  cooking  meat,  and  if  I  go  to  the  house  I'll 
be  sure  to  fill  up  on  biscuits  and  such.  Let's 
take  a  walk!" 

1  -  Good  idea, ' '  said  Joe.  ' '  Well  just  run  away 
from  it.  We'll  walk  over  home  and  come  back 
with  my  folks,  and  I'll  have  a  chance  to  tell 
mother  about  that  panther  without  getting  her 
so  scared  she'll  be  nervous  every  time  we  go 
hunting." 

It  was  almost  dinner-time  when  they  returned, 
accompanied  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Weston  and 
Annie.  Mrs.  Ralston  and  the  two  little  girls 
met  Mrs.  Weston,  and  the  major  was  explaining 
to  Mrs.  Ralston  and  the  girls  about  the  barbecue. 

"You  never  saw  one  before,  did  you,  Mrs. 
Ralston?"  asked  the  major. 

"No,  never.  You  see,  I've  lived  in  a  city 
all  my  life—" 

"Well,  you  get  back  to  the  first  principles  of 
cooking  here.  These  pits,  which  look  like  big 
graves,  were  filled  with  dry  cord-wood  yesterday 
afternoon  and  fires  started,  and  kept  going  all 
night.  That  left  them  over  half  full  of  coals 
this  morning — no  smoke  at  all. 

"Then  I  sent  out  and  had  those  saplings  cut, 
the  bark  scraped  off,  and  laid  across.  Just  put 
the  whole  half  a  beef  or  mutton  or  venison  on 
the  poles  across  the  mouth  of  the  pit  half  full  of 
coals;  keep  it  basted  constantly  to  season  and 

219 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

prevent  its  drying  out.  Keep  the  meat  turned 
often  so  it  cooks  evenly  all  through — and  there 
you  are." 

"Is  it  so  much  better  than  meat  cooked  in  a 
stove?"  inquired  Mrs.  Ralston. 

"It  certainly  is,"  responded  Mrs.  Weston. 
"I  don't  know  why,  but  it  is.  Has  an  entirely 
different  flavor  and  a  better  flavor,  as  you  will 
say  when  you  taste  it." 

"I'm  about  ready  now!"  said  Mrs.  Ralston, 
sniffing  the  mouth-watering  odors. 

The  meat  was  pronounced  done  by  the  cook. 
Coffee-pots  were  boiling,  and  there  was  plenty 
of  light  bread  and  pickles.  Plates  and  table- 
ware had  been  sent  down  from  the  house  for  the 
use  of  the  guests.  The  negroes  were  contented 
with  wooden  pickle  dishes  and  their  fingers 
and  pocket-knives. 

On  each  plate  was  a  portion  of  each  sort  of 
meat,  all  cooked  to  perfection.  The  guests  ate 
until  they  could  eat  no  more.  Mr.  Ralston 
said  it  was  the  best  meat  he  had  ever  tasted,  and 
his  wife  echoed  his  opinion ;  and  as  for  Tom,  he 
announced  he  would  not  stop  until  he  had  to. 

The  major  played  a  mean  trick  on  Tom.  He 
went  to  the  serving-table  and  returned  with  a 
fine,  juicy  portion  of  rib  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"Let's  see  how  you  like  deer  meat,"  he  said. 
Tom  attacked  it  with  enthusiasm. 

220 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Best  of  all.  Has  a  different  flavor,  hasn't 
it?  This  is  the  finest  meat  yet — why  don't 
the  rest  of  you  get  some?  I  think  deer  meat  is 
finer  he  exulted. 

"Well,  I  just  wanted  to  see  what  you  would 
say.  That's  mutton,  Tom,  and  those  bones  on 
the  left  side  of  your  plate  are  where  you  cleaned 
up  your  piece  of  venison  the  first  thing!" 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter  at  Tom's  ex- 
pense.    He  grinned  and  licked  his  fingers. 

"I  don't  care;  it  was  good.  It's  all  so  good 
that  the  last  piece  you  eat  tastes  like  the  best. 
Gimme  a  piece  of  bear  now — sure-enough  bear — 
not  roast  pork!"  he  said. 

There  was  plenty  of  the  meat  saved  for  supper, 
the  neighbors  were  given  some  to  take  home, 
and  the  negroes  were  turned  loose  of  the  rest, 
and  there  was  a  plenty  for  them,  too.  After  the 
coffee  was  served,  black  and  strong  and  made 
by  Alfred's  wife,  who  had  been  for  years  a 
cook  in  New  Orleans  and  knew  how  to  make 
the  real  thing  in  the  way  of  coffee,  the  white 
folks  adjourned  to  the  "big  house,"  leaving  the 
happy  darkies  to  eat  in  contentment. 

"Well,  this  is  about  as  nice  a  barbecue  as  I 
ever  had,"  said  Major  Dean,  "and  we  always 
have  one  here  every  year.  Those  old  pits  down 
in  the  grove  were  dug  thirty  years  ago  or  more, 
We  clean  'em  put  every  year," 

921 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"I'll  just  leave  them  as  they  are,  then,"  said 
Mr.  Ralston. 

"Wish  you  wouldn't  go  away,  Major,"  said 
Tom. 

"Why  should  you?  Your  room  is  here,  and 
this  is  your  house  as  long  as  you  care  to  have 
it,"  said  Mr.  Ralston. 

"Much  obliged  for  that,  and  I'll  consider  it 
that  way.  You  see,  I'm  getting  along  in  years, 
and  it  was  too  lonely  for  an  old  fellow  like  me 
here  by  myself  in  this  big  house.  Then,  I'm 
pretty  well  fixed,  and  I  wanted  to  travel 
around  a  bit,  and  couldn't  do  that  as  long 
as  I  had  the  place  on  my  hands  to  look 
after." 

"I  certainly  hope  you'll  make  headquarters 
here.  It  will  make  me  feel  more  contented 
when  I  have  to  go  back  North,"  said  the  new 
owner  of  the  plantation. 

"I'll  be  here,  Ralston,  a  good  deal  more  than 
I  will  be  away,"  assured  the  major.  "It  is 
hard  to  break  the  habits  of  a  lifetime." 

"Well,  we'd  better  be  making  arrangements 
now  for  our  last  frolic,"  said  Joe  Weston. 
"I've  got  to  get  to  work  on  the  place  by  the 
middle  of  next  week.    This  is  Saturday." 

"What  can  we  do  to  crowd  as  much  fun  as 
possible  in  three  days?"  asked  Tom  Ralston. 

"Oh,  we  can  do  a  lot  in  that  time,    Go 

323 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

hunting  Monday  and  have  a  bird  supper,  for 
one  thing/'  suggested  Joe. 

"That's  a  fine  idea,"  assented  Mr.  Ralston. 
"  We'll  just  do  that.  I  want  a  chance  to  shoot 
at  some  live  birds — something  that  moves  faster 
than  a  tin  can — " 

"A  muley  cow,  for  instance!"  slyly  suggested 
Tom. 

His  father  gulped  hard,  then  began  to  turn 
red  and  stared  at  him.  He  thought  Tom  was 
going  to  give  the  thing  away. 

"A  what?11  asked  Joe. 

"Muley  cow.  I  saw  one  once  that  beat 
anything  for  moving  fast  I've  seen  yet.  A  cow 
would  be  about  the  right  size  target  for  fa- 
ther!" Mr.  Ralston  breathed  freely,  but  Tom 
had  given  him  an  awful  scare.  Tom  cut  his  eye 
around  at  his  parent,  who  eyed  him  reproach- 
fully and  had  a  dry  grin  on  his  face. 

"Well,  now,  that  hunt  will  take  up  Monday. 
What  can  we  do  Tuesday?" 

"Suppose  we  all  go  out  Tuesday  down  to 
the  lake  and  camp  and  fish  and  try  to  get  some 
wild  turkey  and  squirrel  and  have  a  Brunswick 
stew?"  suggested  the  major.  "That  always 
was  one  of  my  favorite  trips.  We  can  spend 
the  night  in  that  hunting-lodge  I  have,  and  come 
back  Wednesday." 

"The  very  thing!"  said  Tom  and  Joe. 
223 


JOE,   THE    BOOK   FARMER 

"Are  fish  biting  now?"  inquired  Mr.  Ralston. 

"Oh  yes;  we  can  get  white  perch  and  trout. 
May  be  able  to  catch  some  bream,  too — no 
telling/'  said  the  major. 

Monday  morning,  early,  Joe  assumed  charge 
of  the  situation.  He  called  in  five  little  negroes 
from  the  servants'  quarters  back  of  the  hill 
and  put  them  to  turning  over  old  logs,  raking 
up  leaves,  and  poking  about  in  likely  covered 
places,  catching  crickets.  The  lively  little  in- 
sects were  placed  in  a  box  covered  with  wire 
gauze  and  given  a  lot  of  unsalted  cracker  crumbs 
and  Irish -potato  peelings  to  eat.  Otherwise 
they  would  have  begun  making  their  meals  off 
one  another. 

"Here,  you,  Wesley,  take  that  spade  and  go 
down  in  the  garden  and  get  us  some  fishing- 
worms,"  directed  Joe;  and  Wesley  went  sham- 
bling off  on  his  errand. 

"Now,  Tom,  we've  arranged  about  the  bait; 
let's  get  our  guns  and  go  see  if  we  can't  get  a 
partridge  or  two  on  our  own  account,"  Joe 
suggested.  "The  major  and  your  father  and 
Uncle  Rube  have  gone  on  a  hunt  below  here. 
We'll  strike  out  in  a  different  direction." 

"What  good  are  those  crickets?"  inquired 
Tom,  as  they  cut  across  the  fields,  gun  on 
shoulder.  "I  thought  worms  were  best  to  fish 
with." 

224 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

''Crickets  are  the  best  bait  yet  for  goggle-eye 
and  blue-bellied  bream,"  explained  Joe,  "but 
I  don't  propose  to  take  any  chances.  If  the 
fish  are  biting  at  all,  they  will  bite  either  crickets 
or  worms.  Now,  white  perch  will  not  bite 
either;  tthey  must  have  the  minnows.  We'll 
take  that  glass  minnow  trap  along  too,  and  a 
minnow-seine  as  well.,, 

"We'll  be  certain  to  have  bait,  won't  we? 
Are  there  any  birds  down  at  the  lake?"  inquired 
Tom.  Since  he  had  got  so  he  could  kill  them 
he  was  anxious  to  hunt  all  the  time. 

"No,  it's  all  thickets  and  woods.  I  expect 
we'd  better  get  some  for  that  Brunswick  stew 
in  case  we  have  bad  luck  getting  squirrels. 
Then  if  we  get  the  squirrels  it  will  be  all  the 
better." 

"Sure,  it's  a  good  idea.  I'll  guarantee  they'll 
be  eaten,"  said  Tom,  with  enthusiasm. 

After  a  three  hours'  hunt  the  boys  secured  a 
dozen  plump  partridges.  Returning  to  the 
house,  Tom  handed  them  to  Aunt  Dicey,  the 
cook. 

"Pick  and  clean  these  birds,  Aunt  Dicey. 
Put  them  on  ice,  and  when  we  get  ready  to 
start  wrap  them  up  carefully  in  a  cloth  wrung 
out  in  salty  ice-water  and  pack  them  in  some 
cracked  ice  and  salt  in  a  tin  bucket  with  a  tight 
top.  Fix  'em  up  all  right,  and  I'll  give  you  two 
15  225 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

bits  —  and  when  you  get  married  again  I'll 
send  you  a  wedding  present." 

"Look  yere,  boy.  Who's  yo'  talkin'  to? 
Me?"  inquired  Aunt  Dicey,  with  awful  dignity, 
placing  both  of  her  hands  on  her  fat  hips  and 
glaring. 

"No;  you.  Who'd  you  s'pose  I  was  talking 
to?" 

"Lemme  tell  yo'  som'p'n,  chile.  Dey's  er  ole 
sayin'  dat  de  scalded  houn'  dreads  de  skillet 
de  hot  grease  come  out  en.  I  been  married  ter 
dat  triflin'  ole  reskel,  Jeff,  nigh  onto  fawty 
yeah,  en  ef  I  ever  does  git  loose  I  boun'  I  knows 
whut's  good  fer  me.  Naw,  suh,  don'  yo'  be 
savin'  no  weddin'  presents  fer  me !"  She  swelled 
with  wrath. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Aunt  Dicey?"  in- 
quired Joe,  near  to  bursting  with  laughter. 

"  Jes'  look  at  dat  outdacious  ole  scoun'l  'sleep 
yander  in  de  sun,  an'  me  ain'  got  er  stick  er 
stove-wood  in  de  kitchen!  Whut  sort  of  a 
husban'  is  dat,  nowhow?  Would  yo'  have  dat 
sort  of  er  thing  fer  er  husban',  huh?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  I  would — really,"  answered 
Tom,  with  a  straight  face,  although  he  was 
about  to  explode. 

"I  got  er  good  min'  ter  go  peel  him  side  de 
haid  wid  dis  yere  piece  er  stove-wood,"  said 
Aunt  Dicey,  her  wrath  rising  as  she  contem- 

226 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

plated  Jeff  snoring  happily  against  the  sunny- 
side  of  the  house. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  suggested  Joe 
Weston.     "I  expect  he's  tired." 

"Ya-a-s,  I  reckon  he  is  tired — bawn  dat  'ere 
way  en  backslided  every  day  er  his  life." 

"Well,  here's  a  quarter  for  you.  Joe  and  I 
will  bring  you  in  some  wood — " 

"Thanky,  suh,  thanky.  I's  done  got  too 
portly  ter  be  stoopin'  over  pickin'  up  wood." 

"You  reckon  he  is  just  afraid  of  work?" 
inquired  Joe,  with  a  wink  at  Tom,  to  start  her 
again. 

"Yasser,  he's  jes'  nacherally  triflin'.  Why, 
yo'  know  whut  dat  nigger  done  wunst?  Hit 
wuz  w'en  we  fust  got  ma'ied  en  I  didn'  have  no 
better  sense  dan  ter  b'lieve  'im. 

"I  axes  'im  one  day  ter  go  split  me  some  stove- 
wood.  I  waits,  en  no  wood.  I  goes  en  looks 
out,  en  dar  he  sits  on  dat  ole  cypress  stump  right 
down  yonner  at  de  hawse-pawn,  wid  er  fishin'- 
pole  in  his  hand. 

"I  names  dat  stove-wood  ter  'im  ergin,  en  he 
say  Marse  Bob  Dean  tole  'im  ter  try  ter  catch 
'im  er  mess  er  catfish  outen  dat  pawn  fer  supper, 
en  he  done  f ergot  hit  twell  den. 

"I  goes  on  en  splits  de  wood.  'Bout  free  days 
later  he  tells  me  de  same  thing  fer  er  excuse. 
Pen  hit  come  over  me  all  of  er  suddint.     Dat 

22J 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

pawn  dries  up  every  summer,  en  dey  am' 
nothin'  no  bigger'n  er  tadpole  ever  been  in  hit! 

"Man!  I  sho  gits  mad.  Dey  wuz  er  bar'l- 
stave  by  de  do',  en  I  picks  hit  up  en  hides  it  in 
de  fold  er  mer  dress,  en  den  I  sashays  down  dar, 
lookin'  pleasant  ez  er  basket  er  chips. 

"'Any  luck,  hun?'  I  says,  real  sweet. 

"'Yeah — done  got  several  bites.  Yo'  better 
go  on  en  split  dat  wood/  sezze,  'kaze  hit's  gwine 
take  me  all  evenin'  here.' 

"I  reaches  over,  accidental  like,  en  lifts  dat 
pole,  en  he  didn'  have  no  mo'  hook  on  hit  dan 
er  rabbit ! 

"'Blam!'  I  brung  dat  bar'l-stave  down  er- 
cross  his  haid,  en  de  stave  split  in  mer  hands. 
He  turned  his  haid  quick,  en  seed  de  jig  wuz  up.'7 
She  guffawed  in  joy  at  the  recollection. 

"He  says,  'Don't!'  jes  lak  er  big  ole  bullfrog 
says  'Ick !'  w'en  he  jumps ;  den  dat  nigger  jumped 
inter  de  pawn  all  spraddled  out  lak  er  big 
black  bullfrog  hese'f.  Hit  warn'  but  waist- 
deep,  but  hit  wuz  col'.  He  wades  out  ter  de 
middle,  en  he  knowed  he  wuz  safe. 

"He  started  roun  t'other  side,  en  I  headed 
him  off.  I  shore  gin  'im  er  piece  of  my  min'. 
He  wuz  skeered  ter  come  out,  kaze  he  knowed 
whut  I  wuz  gwine  ter  do  ter  'im. 

"I  kep'  'im  in  dat  water  fer  one  hour  twell  he 
wuz  mos*  friz.    Den  I  let  'im  out  en  'scorted 

328 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

'im  ter  de  wood-pile.  He  wanted  ter  git  ter  de 
fire  ter  warm.  I  tole  'im  de  exercise  er  splittin' 
wood  wuz  de  bes'  warmin'  thing  I  knowed  of 
except  er  skillet  er  hot  grease  he  wuz  liable  ter 
git  th'o'ed  on  'im  ef  he  come  in  dat  kitchen 
widout  er  armful  er  wood  each  time.  He  fotch 
er  plenty  in,  en  hit  sorter  broke  'im  er  imposin, 
on  me — but  he's  powerful  wufless — powerful 
wufless." 

She  retired  into  the  kitchen  with  the  birds, 
shaking  her  head  dolefully  over  the  worthlessness 
of  her  husband;  and  the  boys,  choking  with 
laughter  every  time  they  looked  at  the  peaceful 
object  of  her  tirade,  filled  the  wood-box  for  her. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  major,  Mr.  Ralston,  and  Uncle  Rube 
returned  with  a  fine  bag  of  birds  later  in 
the  afternoon.  Rube  undertook  the  duty  of 
picking  and  cleaning  them,  and  that  night  for 
supper  they  had  broiled  quail  and  smothered 
quail,  with  plenty  of  gravy  and  toast  to  put  it  on. 

" And  I  killed  four  of  'em  myself!  Just  think 
of  it — four  of  'em !  And  they  were  hard  shots, 
too.  I'll  bet  you  couldn't  have  hit  'em!" 
exulted  Mr.  Ralston  to  Tom. 

"I  got  six  of  the  dozen  Joe  and  I  got," 
retorted  Tom. 

"  Did  you  shoot  'em  on  the  ground?"  inquired 
his  father,  banteringly. 

"No,  I  didn't,"  snapped  Tom,  getting  red  in 
the  face  at  the  reflections  on  his  ability  as  a 
hunter. 

"Bet  they  were  sick  or  crippled  or  couldn't 
fly!"  continued  his  father,  banteringly. 

"Not  a  bit  more  sick  than  a  certain  black 
muley  cow  I  know  of,"  wrathfully  observed  Tom, 
with  a  dangerous  light  in  his  eyes. 

If  somebody  had  soused  a  bucket  of  cold 
230 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

water  on  Mr.  Ralston  he  could  not  have  changed 
more  quickly.     He  gulped  and  swallowed  hard. 

"Oh,  I  was  just  joking  you,  son!"  he  observed. 

" That's  all  right,  then,"  said  Tom,  cooling 
gradually.  "Enough  is  enough,  and  IVe  got 
a  little  joke  of  my  own,  too!" 

"What  is  that,  Tom?  That's  twice  you've 
made  a  break  about  a  cow.  What  is  it  ?"  inquired 
the  major,  who  dearly  loved  a  joke  on  some  one. 

"Oh,  nothing — just  a  little  private  joke  of 
our  own,"  said  Tom.  He  had  no  idea  of  giving 
it  away  yet ;  and,  besides,  he  wanted  those  things 
his  father  had  promised  him. 

There  was  another  early  scattering  to  bed, 
and  at  six  o'clock  the  party  was  ready.  Two 
extra  seats  were  put  in  the  spring -wagon  for 
the  fishermen  to  ride  in,  and  Uncle  Jeff  followed 
in  the  heavy  wagon  with  the  camp  equipment, 
poles  and  such. 

It  was  eight  miles  to  Lost  River,  as  the  lake 
was  called,  and  the  ride  in  the  early  morning 
was  delightful. 

There  were  great  green  live-oaks,  with  limbs 
thirty  and  fifty  feet  long,  shading  the  sandy 
road.  Festooned  on  twigs  and  branches  were 
pendulous  masses  of  the  gray  Spanish  moss 
swaying  in  each  passing  breeze,  and  deriving 
its  sustenance  from  the  moist  air.  There  were 
great  palmetto  bushes,  each  leaf  an  exaggerated 

231 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

palm-leaf  fan,  only  they  were  green  and  trop- 
ical-looking. Vines,  bright  with  scarlet  berries, 
twisted  in  and  out  among  the  bushes  and  clung 
to  the  trunks  of  trees.  Here  and  there  a  holly, 
all  red  and  green,  brought  to  mind  Christmas 
and  the  holiday  season.  Many  of  the  black- 
gum  and  oak  trees  had  immense  masses  of 
mistletoe  growing  on  them.  The  frost  had 
touched  the  leaves  until  they  were  a  riot  of 
crimson  and  yellow  and  bronze. 

There  were  strange,  sweet  scents  burdening 
the  air — subtle  and  mysterious.  Blue-jays 
flashed  like  streaks  of  blue  flame  from  bough 
to  bough.  Crimson  cardinals  whistled  a  merry 
melody  from  roadside  coverts. 

The  party  halted  after  a  long  ride  down  an 
almost  obliterated  woods  road,  which  ended  on 
a  little  plateau,  perfectly  level  and  shaded  by 
beech  and  magnolia  trees.  There  was  a  two- 
room  plank  bungalow,  with  wide  front  and 
back  porches,  and  a  twelve-foot  hall  between 
the  two  rooms.  In  a  small  ravine  to  the  right 
a  spring  gushed  forth  from  under  the  roots  of 
an  immense  bay  tree. 

Farther  down,  the  lake  wound  around,  bordered 
by  cypress  trees  and  the  strange  " knees"  of  the 
cypress  and  thickets  of  hazel  and  bay  and  gum. 

"  Why,  it  looks  like  a  river  instead  of  a  lake!" 
exclaimed  Tom. 

232 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"That's  what  it  is — or  was,"  said  the  major. 
"In  the  past,  seventy  or  eighty  years  ago,  this 
was  the  original  bed  of  the  river.  One  '  high- 
water r  the  current  just  cut  right  through  Nine- 
Mile  Bend  and  left  the  old  bed  here  and  took  an 
entirely  new  course.  That  is  why  this  lake  is 
called  'Lost  River.'" 

"Well,  what  keeps  it  full  of  water?" 

"River  gets  through  these  swamps  every 
spring,  and  then  there  are  many  little  streams 
feeding  it,  such  as  come  from  our  spring  over 
there." 

"Look  here, .folks;  if  we're  going  to  have  any 
fish  for  dinner,  it  strikes  me  we'd  better  be  get- 
ting busy?"  suggested  Joe  Weston. 

"Sensible,  as  usual,  Joe!"  said  Mr.  Ralston. 
"I  want  to  catch  a  fish  myself.  That's  some- 
thing else  I  never  have  done." 

"Well,  now  we  want  to  divide  this  thing  up 
so  we'll  be  certain  of  game.  It  won't  do  for  all 
of  us  to  do  the  same  thing.  Who  is  going  to 
fish?" 

"I!"  said  Mr.  Ralston. 

"I,  too!"  said  Tom. 

"All  right;  I'll  show  you  two  about  the 
fishing.  Joe,  soon's  the  niggers  take  the  mules 
out  and  feed  'em  you  go  with  Jeff  and  Rube 
and  see  if  you  can't  get  some  squirrels  for  the 
Brunswick  stew  or  for  supper." 

233 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Down  the  steep  bank  and  into  a  boat  the 
major  and  Mr.  Ralston  and  Tom  went.  The 
poles  were  light,  dry  canes,  small  and  pliant, 
so  as  not  to  tire  the  wrist  in  holding  them; 
the  lines  were  of  the  finest,  lightest  silk,  and  the 
floats  were  the  quill  end  of  goose  feathers,  about 
eight  inches  long.  As  a  sinker  there  was  a 
small  "BB"  shot  on  each  line,  barely  enough  to 
take  the  bait  and  hook  under. 

"Now  don't  make  any  noise — fish  are  mighty 
scary  things,"  cautioned  the  major.  "And 
watch  how  and  where  I  fish,  and  do  the  same 
way." 

Stringing  a  fine,  fat  cricket  on  his  hook,  he 
paddled  slowly  across  the  lake  to  where  there 
was  a  pile  of  driftwood  and]  leaves  and  chips 
in  among  the  cypress  knees  and  trunks.  He 
dropped  the  bait  so  quietly  in  between  two  of 
the  cypress  trunks,  standing  in  about  three  feet 
of  water,  that  it  made  scarcely  a  ripple.  The 
quill  lay  on  the  surface  of  the  water  like  some 
bit  of  floating  stick. 

There  was  a  premonitory  quiver,  a  couple  of 
slight  dips  of  the  end  toward  the  hook;  the 
quill  straightened  up,  and  then  suddenly  dis- 
appeared slantwise  under  the  water.  With  a 
slight  twist  of  his  wrist,  communicated  to  the 
limber  pole,  the  major  tightened  the  line.  The 
tip  of  the  pole  bent,  and  for  a  moment  under 

234 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

the  surface  of  the  water  he  played  the  surging 
fish.  Then  with  a  mighty  flapping  and  splash- 
ing a  red-and-blue  beauty,  almost  as  broad  as 
one's  two  hands,  was  fluttering  in  the  boat. 

"By  George,  he's  a  nice  one!  That's  what 
we  call  a  blue  bream  down  here  —  sweetest 
fish  we  have,  in  flavor.  Now,  one  of  you  drop 
your  line  in  the  same  place,  and  the  other  fish 
by  that  stump.     I'll  try  it  ahead  here." 

He  had  moored  the  boat  by  the  chain  to  the 
limb  of  an  overhanging  cypress. 

As  long  as  he  lives  Tom  will  never  forget  his 
excitement  as  the  quill  went  under,  the  line 
tautened,  and  he  felt  the  electric  thrill  as  the 
fish  rushed  through  the  water,  bending  the  tip 
of  the  pliable  pole. 

"Hiyi!  You've  got  him — you  got  him!  Don't 
jerk — you'll  tear  the  hook  from  his  mouth !  Lift 
steady!"     The  major  was  as  excited  as  he  was. 

The  fish  was  yellow  on  the  belly  and  dark 
above,  with  deep-blue  side-fins  and  blue  gills — 
a  beautiful  specimen,  almost  as  big  as  the  first 
one. 

"That  is  what  we  call  the  willow  bream, 
Tom.  Come  on,  now,  let's  get  a  good  string  of 
'em.  They  are  biting  fine.  When  one  bites 
you  can  bank  on  there  being  more  of  them 
about  the  same  place.  They  seem  to  run  in 
schools  to  a  certain  extent." 

235 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Next  Mr.  Ralston  caught  one,  and  was  more 
excited  than  Tom  was.  Then  the  major  got 
another,  and  so  on.  Finally,  two  shots  were 
heard  in  the  woods  to  their  left. 

"I'll  be  willing  to  eat  my  last  summer  hat 
without  sugar  or  cream  if  we  haven't  got  two 
squirrels  for  the  stew,  anyway.  That's  Jeff's 
gun,  and  he's  a  mighty  squirrel-hunter,"  said 
the  major.  Two  more  reports  made  the  woods 
reverberate.  "  There's  that  twelve-gage  Joe  is 
shooting — squirrels  must  be  plentiful  as  fish. 
Well,  we've  got  to  tote  our  end  of  the  rail  too, 
now,  for  more  fish !"  When  the  hunters  shouted 
from  the  shore  the  fishermen  had  fished  along 
the  bank  for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  the  lake 
and  had  thirty-five  fine  ones  trailing  along  be- 
hind the  boat,  strung  on  a  stout  cord. 

"I  guess  we've  enough  for  dinner — hey?" 
inquired  Mr.  Ralston,  trying  to  lift  them  out 
of  the  water,  admiringly. 

"Yes,  and  I  can  eat  about  four  of  'em!" 
said  Tom. 

The  major  pulled  the  boat  back  to  the  camp 
landing,  and  the  fine  catch  of  fish  was  taken  up. 
Joe  and  Jeff  had  got  in,  Jeff  with  six  squirrels, 
Joe  with  three,  and  Uncle  Rube  yet  to  hear  from. 

"We  aren't  going  to  starve — that's  certain!" 
gleefully  observed  Joe,  beholding  the  string  of 
fish. 

236 


JOE,  THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Down  at  the  spring  branch,  near  where  it 
flowed  into  the  lake,  the  fishermen  began 
scaling  and  cleaning  their  fish  for  the  pan. 
Jeff  had  started  a  fire,  filled  the  coffee-pot  with 
water,  and  set  it  on  to  get  ready  for  the  coffee, 
and  then  he  and  Joe  came  down  to  the  branch 
and  began  to  clean  their  squirrels. 

Jeff  found  three  brickbats,  left  from  building 
the  chimney  of  the  bungalow.  These  he  set 
triangularly  in  the  bed  of  coals,  and  on  them 
placed  the  deep  frying-pan  half  full  of  lard. 

He  got  out  the  salt  and  pepper  and  corn-meal. 
Each  fish  was  salted  and  seasoned,  rolled  in  the 
meal,  and,  when  the  lard  was  smoking  and  boiling 
hot,  laid  in  the  grease.  There  was  a  tremendous 
spluttering  and  sizzling,  and  two  more  were 
placed  in  the  pan ;  then  when  they  had  cooked 
to  a  beautiful  golden  brown  they  were  taken 
from  the  grease  and  laid  on  a  plank  to  drain  and 
cool. 

Then  the  skillet,  which  looked  like  a  frying- 
pan,  only  it  did  not  have  deep  sides,  was  placed 
on  the  coals,  and  the  major  mixed  some  corn- 
meal  with  scalding  water  and  salted  it  liberally. 
This  he  made  into  pones  with  his  hands,  and 
placed  them  on  the  skillet. 

Uncle  Rube  emerged  from  the  forest  at  this 
time,  bearing  an  immense  wild  turkey -gobbler 
and  five  more  squirrels.     The  late  dinner  was 

*37 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

ready,  and  the  hungry  hunters  fell  to  with  a 
vim. 

"Look  hyar,  Rube,  dey  ain'  gwine  be  ernuff 
fishes  wid  dese  hongry  folks  eatin'  like  dey  is. 
Run  down  ter  de  branch  en  clean  er  half  er  dozen 
or  so  mo' .  Gotter  do  hit  if  me  en  you  is  gwine  ter 
eat  fish.     Fetch  'em  up  here,  an'  I'll  fry  'em." 

Tom  watched  Joe  and  Uncle  Jeff  skin  the 
squirrels.  A  cut  was  made  crosswise  of  the 
middle  of  the  squirrel's  back  and  running  around 
the  body.  Joe  would  insert  the  first  two  fingers 
of  each  hand  under  the  skin  at  one  end  of  the 
cut:  Uncle  Jeff  would  do  the  same,  and  both 
would  pull  at  the  same  time.  The  hide  would 
slip  off  as  neatly  as  a  glove  from  the  hand. 

Two  of  the  squirrels  were  of  the  red  or  "fox" 
variety,  and  Tom  admired  them  very  much 
indeed.  Joe  cut  off  the  beautiful  bushy  tails 
and  handed  them  to  him. 

"We'll  fix  those  up  for  you  to  take  back  as 
souvenirs  of  your  trip,"  he  said. 

"I  won't  need  any  reminder,  Joe,  but  I'll 
be  glad  to  have  them  just  the  same.  They  will 
make  fine  ornaments  for  my  room." 

Quickly  the  feet  were  cut  off  the  squirrels; 
they  were  drawn  and  washed,  the  ears  trimmed 
off  the  heads,  and  the  party  was  glad  to  answer 
the  call  of  "Supper!"  from  the  cook. 

"You  don't  cook  the  heads,  do  you?"  inquired 
238 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Tom,  looking  at  the  tin  bucket  of  cleaned 
squirrels,  which  had  been  salted  and  packed  in 
the  bucket.  Jeff  was  putting  the  top  on,  and 
was  going  to  sink  it  in  the  icy  water  to  keep 
the  meat  fresh  until  morning. 

"Dat's  de  bestest  part  of  'em,"  announced 
Uncle  Jeff,  with  conviction.  "Dem  squir'l 
brains  is  de  mos'  delicatest  part  whut  is — en 
'sides  dat,  ef  er  pusson  eats  'em  reg'lar  dey 
makes  dat  pusson  des  es  cute  en  nimble  es  er 
squir'l  hisse'f .  En  de  tongue  is  mighty  fine  too,  en 
dey's  er  powerful  sweet  bite  er  meat  on  each  jaw." 

The  three  hurried  to  the  camp-fire,  where  sup- 
per was  ready.  In  all  his  life,  Tom  had  never 
tasted  anything  as  good  as  that  corn-dodger 
and  fried  fish  and  black  coffee.  He  got  away 
with  three  of  the  big  fish,  two  tin  cups  of  coffee, 
and  two  sizable  chunks  of  corn-bread.  There 
were  no  knives  or  forks ;  each  hunter  took  his 
fish  in  his  fingers  and  returned  to  primitive  ways. 

"Got  enough?"  inquired  Joe  Weston,  with  a 
smile,  as  Tom  heaved  a  big  sigh  and  leaned 
back  against  the  live-oak  on  whose  gnarled 
roots  he  was  sitting. 

"No,  I  haven't;  but  I  haven't  room  for  any 
more!"  answered  Tom,  regretfully. 

For  about  an  hour  the  party  sat  about  the 
fire  talking  and  planning  other  trips.  Finally, 
the  major  rose  and  yawned. 

239 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Well,  folks,  le's  get  our  blankets  and  get 
ready  for  sleep  before  we  get  so  drowsy  we 
haven't  any  sense  left.  I'm  mighty  near  that 
now.  We'll  all  sleep  inside;  it  is  too  chilly  and 
damp  out  here  on  the  ground.  Jeff,  start  us  a 
blaze  in  the  fireplace  of  each  room!" 

With  his  coat  for  a  pillow,  each  boy  rolled 
up  in  his  blanket  on  the  floor.  Mr.  Ralston  and 
the  major  slept  in  one  room,  the  two  boys  and 
the  two  old  negroes  in  the  other. 

A  great  owl  hooted  from  across  the  lake, 
answered  by  another  in  the  mysterious  depths 
of  the  wood  beyond.  There  were  resounding 
splashings  and  flappings  from  the  water  below 
as  some  giant  gar  or  grinnell  leaped  for  its  prey. 
There  were  eery  chirps  and  chatterings  from 
the  trees  as  bats  squeaked  and  gibbered  about 
in  the  dark.  A  little  screech-owl  mewed  shiv- 
eringly,  monotonously,  from  a  giant  magnolia 
tree  near  by.  One  of  the  negro  men  was  asleep, 
and  Joe  Weston  was  just  dozing  into  dreamland 
when  faintly  in  the  distance  came  the  cry  of 
some  woman  in  distress — a  blood-curdling  wail. 
It  sounded  again — and  again! 

Tom  and  Joe  leaped  to  their  feet  and  reached 
for  their  guns. 

"Whar  yo'  boys  gwine?"  inquired  Uncle  Jeff, 
sitting  up. 

"Don't  you  hear  that  woman  screaming  down 
240 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

there  in  the  swamp?  Hear  that?"  said  Tom. 
The  cry  rang  out  again. 

"  Yeah — I  hears  hit,"  said  Jeff,  without  enthu- 
siasm. 

"We  must  go  to  her.  She  is  in  some  awful 
danger!"  exclaimed  Tom,  starting  for  the  door. 

"That  woman  is  lost  in  the  swamp.  We've 
no  time  to  lose — come  on!"  urged  Joe  Weston, 
slipping  on  his  coat. 

"Ooman  nothin' !"  snorted  Uncle  Jeff. 
"Dat's  er  great  big  ole  painter — same  as  yo' 
killed,  Marse  Joe.  Dat's  all.  Dey's  several  of 
'em  in  dese  hyar  swamps  yit.  Dat  varmint 
smells  de  fish  we  been  cookin'  en  whar  we  been 
cleanin'  dem  squir'ls." 

"You  sure?"  inquired  Joe  Weston.  He  had 
never  heard  the  cry  of  a  panther  before. 

"  Jes'  es  sure  as  if  hit  wuz  mer  ole  lady  callin' 
me.  I  done  hearn  too  many  of  'em — I  recker- 
nizes  de  voice.  I'll  jes  slip'  er  couple  er  buck- 
shot shells  in  dis  gun  in  case  ole  Mis'  Painter 
comes  er  yowlin'  eroun'  hyar;  den  I  give  'er 
somethin'  ter  yowl  erbout." 

"They  must  be  dreadfully  dangerous?"  in- 
quired Tom,  resuming  his  blanket  again. 

"Dey  is.  Dey  is  de  sneakin'est,  slyest,  mos' 
dangerousest  animule  whut  is,"  emphatically  as- 
serted Uncle  Jeff.  "Dey '11  slip  en  slide  en  f oiler 
er  pusson  fer  hours,  en  run  erhead  of  a  man  when 

16  241 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

dey  fines  out  whut  road  he's  gwine  take,  den 
climbs  a  tree  wid  ^er  limb  hangin'  over  de  road. 

"Den  w'en  yo'  passes  under — blip!  Dat 
painter  jumps  an'  is  right  on  yer,  teef  in  yo' 
neck  an'  a-drinkm'  of  yo'  blood.  I  sure  hates 
dem  varmints/' 

The  panther  called  once  or  twice  faintly  in 
the  distance,  and  was  evidently  retreating  from 
the  camp.  The  owl  resumed  his  hooting,  and 
snores  from  Rube  and  Uncle  Jeff  indicated  to 
the  boys  that  it  was  time  for  them  to  be  getting 
some  sleep  also.  They  drifted  off  into  dreamy 
unconsciousness. 

"My  goodness  erlive!  Is  yo'  all  gwine  sleep 
all  day?"     Uncle  Jeff  shook  them  vigorously. 

"  Wh-what  time  is  it?"  inquired  Joe,  yawning. 

"Where's  the  panther?"  demanded  Tom, 
springing  to  his  feet  and  looking  dazedly  at  the 
old  darky. 

"Painter  nuthin' — hit's  time  fer  yo'  all  ter 
be  gittin'  some  fishes  fer  bre'kfus'.  Ef  yo' 
doan'  git  no  fish — no  bre'kfus'.  We  ain'  brung 
no  grub;  we  is  sho  'nough  hunters,  en  'pen's 
on  whut  we  kills  en  catches." 

"Well,  suppose  we  can't  catch  any  fish, 
Uncle  Jeff?"  Tom  was  appalled  at  the  possi- 
bility of  no  breakfast — and  an  empty  feeling  in 
his  stomach  already. 

242 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Dat  am*  de  queschun — yo'  is  jes'  bleeged  ter 
git  fish/' 

''I  reckon  we'll  have  to  get  them  some  way, 
then,''  said  Joe  to  Tom. 

"De  bes'  way  I  knows  of  is  ter  git  down  on 
de  lake  an*  fish  fer  'em,"  suggested  Jeff,  dryly. 
"Dese  hyar  fishes  in  dis  lake  don't  come  er- 
floppin'  up  de  bank  an'  inter  de  fryin'-pan 
widout  no  invite  whatsomever.  Dey  has  ter  be 
invited  wid  er  hook  en  line." 

The  boys  stepped  out  of  the  door  into  what 
appeared  to  be  a  sea  of  milk.  A  dense  fog 
overlaid  everything. 

"Hit's  five  er'clock,  dat's  whut  hit  is.  Hyar, 
drink  dis  yer  cup  er  cawfee — hit  '11  keep  de 
malariousness  outen  yo'  bones."  The  hot, 
black  coffee  tasted  pretty  good.  Uncle  Jeff  had 
been  up  an  hour,  and  had  made  a  fresh  pot  of 
it,  a  hot  hoe-cake,  and  had  a  couple  of  the  fried 
fish  from  the  night  before  ready  for  the  boys. 

"Dis  ain'  bre'kfus',  min'  yo';  dis  is  jes'  er 
snack.  Now  y'all  git  down  dere  wid  dem 
crickets  en  w'ums  en  fish  clost  ter  de  bank. 
De  goggle-eyes  is  feedin'  early  in  de  mawnin', 
en  speshly  eroun'  de  cypress  knees.  Don' 
make  no  noise,  en  keep  yo'  moufs  shet." 

"Can  fishes  hear?"  asked  Tom,  his  mouth 
full  of  hoe-cake. 

"Ain'  none  of  'em  ever  tole  me  dey  could,  but 
243 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

I  inginnerally  notices  dat  de  folks  whut  talks 
mos'  fishin'  gits  de  leastest  fish." 

"Even  out  of  a  horse -pond?"  inquired  Joe 
Weston,  mischievously. 

Uncle  Jeff  guffawed.  "She  tole  yo'  erbout 
dat,  did  she?  Haw,  haw,  haw!  Hit  wuz  er 
good  scheme  ez  long  ez  hit  lasted.  Go  on,  now. 
I  am'  got  time  to  projeck  wid  yo'  young  uns." 

"Hadn't  you  better  wake  Mr.  Ralston  and 
the  major?" 

"Law  me,  yo*  boys  thinks  yo*  is  smart,  but 
dem  ole  fellers  is  been  up  er  hour  ahead  o'  yo', 
en  gone  in  de  woods  atter  squir'ls  en  tuckys. 
Go  on,  now,  en  git  in  dat  boat.  I  gotter  go 
down  ter  de  spring  en  trim  up  dem  squir'ls  en 
patteridges,  en  git  dat  Brunswick  sorter  started." 

The  boys  were  soon  in  the  boat,  each  one 
fishing  on  his  own  account.  By  following  the 
directions  of  the  old  negro  they  found  the  bream 
were  voracious.  In  less  than  an  hour  Tom  had 
ten  fine  ones  and  Joe  Weston  twelve. 

"Better  bring  dem  fishes  on  up  hyar,  if  yo* 
has  any,  an'  wants  bre'kfus'  an'  'spec's  ter  eat 
any  'fore  evenin'." 

A  savory  smell  assailed  their  senses  as  they 
approached  the  camp.  The  big  pot  was  steam- 
ing merrily.  Uncle  Rube  was  tending  the  fire, 
and  Jeff  had  a  quizzical  look  in  his  eye. 

"Rube  slipped  out  ahead  of  all  of  us,  en  got 
244 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

er  half-dozen  mo'  squir'ls  way  back  of  camp, 
en  we  kin  have  dem  we  wuz  savin'  fer  de  Bruns- 
wick stew  fer  bre'kfus'.  Rube,  better  go  clean 
dem  squir'ls  now  en  put  'em  in  de  freezerator 
in  de  spring  branch.  No  game  ain'  good  wid 
de  heat  in  hit." 

"Come  on,  Tom;  I  guess  it  is  up  to  us  to  clean 
our  fish,  too,"  suggested  Joe  Weston. 

"Now,"  said  Uncle  Jeff,  approvingly,  "dat's 
de  way  fer  er  sho-'nuff  spotesman  ter  do  on  er 
trip — not  jes'  want  ter  eat  all  de  time  en  do 
no  wuck.     Hurry  up  wid  de  fish!" 

It  was  not  long  before  the  fish  were  scaled, 
cleaned,  and  ready  for  the  pan.  The  squirrels 
had  been  put  on  in  the  pot  with  a  few  slices  of 
smoked  bacon,  some  chopped  onion,  a  bay  leaf 
or  two  pulled  from  a  near-by  bush  to  flavor,  and 
plenty  of  black  pepper,  red  pepper,  and  salt. 
Some  flour  had  been  browned  in  a  tin  plate, 
and  after  a  few  tablespoonfuls  of  vinegar  were 
added  to  the  simmering  delicacy  the  browned 
flour  was  stirred  in  to  thicken  the  gravy,  and 
the  pot  set  to  one  side  over  a  bed  of  coals,  where 
it  was  simmering  gently. 

Rube  came  up  from  the  spring,  and  at  a  nod 
from  Jeff  reached  for  his  hunting-horn  and 
waked  the  echoes  with  its  music.  He  waited, 
and  two  shots  were  barely  heard  in  the  distance. 

1 '  Dat's  dem !  Dey  heered  us.  Dey '11  be  erlong 
245 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

torreckly,  en  I  reckon  yo'  young  gennelmuns 
is  hongry.  Have  some  er  dis  yere  smothered 
squir'l  en  er  fish?"  Rube  was  assisting  in  dish- 
ing out  the  delightful  delicacy.  A  bountiful 
helping  soon  disappeared,  helped  by  swabs  of 
corn-bread  in  the  gravy  and  washed  down  by 
the  black  nectar  brewed  in  the  coffee-pot. 

Tom  Ralston  at  first  eyed  the  dusty-looking 
piece  of  corn-bread  askance. 

"What  is  this?"  he  inquired. 

"Taste  it!"  urged  Joe  Weston.  It  had  even 
a  better  flavor  than  that  made  the  night  before. 

"It's  bully — and  goes  fine  with  this  gravy!" 
said  Tom. 

"Yo'  axed  whut  it  is.  Dat  is  er  jinnywine 
nigger  hoe-cake,"  announced  Uncle  Jeff,  with 
pride.     "Yo'  like  it?" 

"You  bet!"  said  Tom,  swabbing  up  more 
gravy  with  a  piece  of  it.  "Best  corn-bread  I 
ever  tasted." 

"In  de  fust  place,  hit's  made  outer  home- 
ground  cawn-meal  whut  am'  had  de  life  bolted 
out  of  hit  an*  has  got  some  suption  lef  in  hit. 
Dis  stuff  yo'  git  outen  de  sto's  ain\  I  jes'  es 
soon  eat  san\" 

"Why  do  you  call  it  a  hoe-cake?"  asked 
Tom. 

"De  pore  folks  whut  didn'  use  ter  have  no 
skillits  use  ter  put  de  hoe  in  de  ashes,  den  put 

246 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

de  dough  on  de  hoe-blade  an'  bake  hit  dat  way, 
kivered  wid  hot  ashes.  I  baked  dis  on  de 
skillit,  but  dey  am'  no  reel  diffrunce." 

The  major  and  Mr.  Ralston  came  puffing  up, 
laden  with  squirrels  and  a  wild  turkey  each. 
After  breakfast  a  consultation  was  held  as  to 
what  would  be  done  next. 

The  major  and  Mr.  Ralston  decided  they 
would  go  down  on  the  lake  and  fish  for  white 
perch  and  trout,  they  biting  best  in  the  middle 
of  the  day.  Tom  concluded  he  would  fish  also. 
Joe  Weston  said  he  would  go  into  the  woods 
and  try  to  bag  a  few  more  squirrels,  as  he  wanted 
to  take  some  back  to  his  mother;  and  thus  the 
party  was  arranged. 

Tom,  however,  did  not  go  out  on  the  lake. 
He  was  intensely  interested  in  the  making  of 
the  Brunswick  stew,  and  he  hung  around  wait- 
ing to  see  how  it  was  done.  Uncle  Jeff,  as  high 
priest  of  the  occasion,  began  his  preparations. 
He  scrubbed  the  five-gallon  pot  thoroughly,  had 
Rube  bring  a  plenty  of  wood,  and  fill  the  pot 
nearly  to  the  brim  with  spring  water. 

Then  the  squirrels  were  cut  up,  disjointing 
the  legs,  cutting  off  the  heads,  and  the  backs 
were  divided  into  three  pieces.  All  pieces  were 
well  salted  and  put  into  the  pot.  After  about 
half  an  hour  of  boiling  the  scum  on  the  top  of 
the  water  was  carefully  skimmed  off,  and  the 

247 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

partridges  were  dropped  in  whole,  and  eight 
thick  slices  of  smoked  bacon  were  minced  fine 
and  added  to  the  mixture,  which  was  boiling 
slowly. 

All  the  time  the  pot  was  kept  boiling  slowly 
but  steadily.  From  under  the  wagon-seat  Uncle 
Jeff  brought  forth  two  cans  of  sweet  corn  and 
two  cans  of  tomatoes.  Four  big  onions  were 
chopped  fine  and  added,  a  clove  or  two  of  garlic, 
a  couple  of  bay  leaves,  three  pods  of  red  pepper, 
a  teaspoonful  of  black  pepper,  and  a  tablespoon  - 
ful  of  salt.  Six  large  Irish  potatoes  were  cut  in 
bits  and  placed  in  the  pot,  which  was  now 
almost  brimming  full.  Jeff  turned  with  an  air 
of  triumph  to  Tom. 

"Dar  she  is!"  he  exclaimed.  "Now,  some 
folkses  don't  do  jes'  like  I  does,  but  when  I  kin 
git  some  fishes  I  inginnerally  puts  some  in  ter 
help  de  flavor.  Run  down  an*  ax  dem  fisher- 
men ter  give  yo'  three  or  fo'  nice  big  fishes.' ' 

Tom  called  to  the  major,  who  tossed  three 
beautiful  big  white  perch  to  the  bank.  Tom 
helped  Jeff  scale  and  clean  them,  taking  off 
heads,  tails,  and  fins,  then  added  the  fish  to  the 
concoction  which  was  already  giving  off  most 
hunger-compelling  odors. 

"Dat  ar  stew  don'  need  ernother  thing  now 
'ceppin'  ter  simmer  steady  about  free  hours. 
Den,  ef  yo'  don'  say  hit's  de  bes'  eatins'  yo' 

248 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

ever  had,  I  ain,  never  gwine  make  nary  Mother. 
De  Brunswick  is  de  fines'  stew  whut  grows.  In 
co'se  folks  kin  make  hit — or  som'p'n'  like 
hit — at  home  on  de  cook  -  stove,  but  hit's  de 
woods,  an'  de  game,  an'  de  rlaver  of  de  smoke, 
an'  de  appertite  yo'  gits  whut  is  de  mainest 
thing/' 

Tom  began  to  get  hungry  as  soon  as  he  got 
a  whiff  of  the  bubbling  richness  when  Jeff  lifted 
the  lid  to  give  it  a  caressing  stir.  His  mouth 
watered. 

1 '  Uh  huh !  Yo's  gittin'  hongry— I  knows  hit !' ' 
exclaimed  the  cook,  triumphantly. 

" I  sure  am!"  admitted  Tom,  hopefully. 

"Well,  yo'  jes'  git  hongrier  yit.  An'  I  am' 
gwine  give  yo*  a  doggone  thing  ter  eat  twell 
dis  yer  Brunswick  is  done  right.  I  am'  gwine  ter 
have  yo'  appertite  mint,  an'  den  have  yo'  say 
my  stew  ain'  de  bes'  thing  yo'  ever  eat." 

"Oh,  shucks!  Gimme  a  piece  of  corn-bread, 
Uncle  Jeff!" 

"  Not  er  bit.  Yo'  better  go  on  'way  f 'm  hyar, 
kaze  de  longer  yo'  smell  dat  stew  de  mo'  yo' 
mouf  waters  twell  yo'  is  likely  ter  drown  yo'se'f 
in  yer  innards  dat  way." 

Tom  reluctantly  went  down  to  the  lake-edge, 
and,  taking  a  bottle  containing  some  crickets, 
his  fishing-line,  and  minnow-bucket  to  keep  his 
catch  in,  fished  awhile  from  a  tremendous  old 

249 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

cypress  log  lying  in  the  edge  of  the  water.  He 
managed  to  land  seven  very  nice  bream. 

He  felt  tired  from  being  up  so  long,  and 
drowsy.  There  was  a  most  inviting  pile  of 
leaves  just  up  the  bank,  and  he  laid  down  to 
rest  awhile.  The  smell  of  the  forest  enchanted 
and  lulled  him.  A  redbird  whistled  merrily 
from  the  trees  above.  He  felt  his  eyes  closing, 
and  then — 

Next  thing  he  knew  the  sun  was  shining 
directly  in  his  face,  and  somebody  was  shaking 
him  vigorously. 

"Hey — you  know  how  long  you've  been 
asleep?"  asked  Major  Dean,  who  was  rousing 
him. 

" Nope.     Been  too  busy  to  wake  up  and  see!" 

"You've  snoozed  from  ten  o'clock  until  half 
past  one.     Ready  for  some  of  that  Brunswick ?" 

"You  sure  are  a  good  guesser!"  answered 
Tom,  awake  all  at  once.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
never  was  so  hungry  in  his  life.  He  went  to 
the  spring  and  bathed  his  face  and  hands  in 
the  icy  water,  and  felt  fine  and  refreshed  from 
his  open-air  nap.  As  he  climbed  the  bank 
toward  camp  he  saw  Joe  Weston  coming  in 
with  six  nice  squirrels  to  add  to  the  turkeys  they 
would  take  back  home  with  them. 

Uncle  Jeff  helped  the  stew  in  deep  tin  pans. 
There  was  a  tablespoon  at  each  place  to  eat  it 

250 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

with,  an  immense  hunk  of  hoe-cake,  and  a  tin 
cup  of  freshly  made  black  coffee.    That  was  all. 

Until  his  dying  day  neither  Tom  nor  Mr. 
Ralston  will  forget  the  taste  of  that  Brunswick 
stew.  Appetites  were  at  the  keenest  edge,  and 
added  to  the  delight.  Every  ingredient  had 
cooked  down  to  a  soft,  harmonious,  and  delicate 
whole,  gamy  and  rich  and  most  satisfying.  It 
was  the  most  thoroughly  delightful  dish  either 
of  them  had  ever  eaten.  It  was  not  new  to  the 
major  and  Joe,  but  they  enjoyed  it  as  much 
as  the  two  guests  who  were  having  their  first 
experience. 

Tom  managed  to  get  away  with  three  pans 
of  it,  two  big  hunks  of  hoe-cake,  and  two  cups 
of  the  coffee. 

"This  is  the  only  time  I  ever  wished  I  was  a 
dumb  beast,"  he  remarked,  wistfully,  as  he 
eyed  the  pot  where  the  stew  was  yet  simmering 
gently,  and  plenty  of  it  yet  for  all  hands. 

"Why,  Tom — what  sort  of  a  beast?"  asked 
Joe,  with  a  grin. 

"I'd  like  to  be  a  camel.  I  hear  they  have 
seven  stomachs.  And  just  think  what  a  help 
that  would  be  on  an  occasion  like  this!" 

After  eating  the  stew  the  party  lounged  and 
talked  and  dozed  for  two  hours  while  the  negroes 
cleaned  up  the  camp  utensils,  packed  the  things 
back  in  the  wagons,  and  dressed  the  game. 

251 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Then  as  the  sun  began  to  near  the  tops  of  the 
trees  in  the  west  the  party  started  homeward. 
The  fun  was  over  for  Joe  and  Tom  for  a  month 
or  so,  at  any  rate,  and  for  Mr.  Ralston,  who 
would  leave  the  next  week  for  his  business  in 
the  North. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

BREAKFAST  at  the  Ralston  home  was  over, 
and  Joe  Weston,  Tom,  and  Mr.  Ralston 
were  on  the  front  porch,  where  Joe  was  preparing 
to  take  his  leave. 

"Well,  we've  had  a  mighty  good  time,  Mr. 
Ralston,  but  work-time  has  come.  No  more 
frolicking  until  the  crops  are  laid  by,"  said  Joe. 

"What's  'laid  by'?"  inquired  Tom,  anxious 
to  obtain  information  from  his  tutor. 

"Laid  aside,  done  with — worked  and  tended 
enough — nothing  to  do  except  wait  for  Nature 
to  mature  'em,"  answered  Joe.  "That  is  in 
late  summer.  From  then  until  fall  there  is  not 
much  to  do,  except  haying  or  pulling  fodder." 

"Look  here,  Joe.  Anything  I  can  do  to  help 
you?"  inquired  Mr.  Ralston.  "You've  showed 
me  more  fun  than  I  ever  had  before.  Can't  I 
make  some  return?" 

"Not  a  thing,  Mr.  Ralston,  unless  you'll  sell 
me  that  fertilizer  down  in  the  cow-lot  and  stable- 
yard.  There's  about  fifty  wagon-loads  of  it, 
I  guess,  and  I  need  barn-yard  stuff  mightily," 

"What's  it  worth,  Joe?" 
353 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Scraped  up  and  ready  to  load  I  guess  it's 
worth  thirty  cents  a  two-horse  wagon -load.  It 
could  be  better,  because  it's  been  exposed  to 
the  rain  and  lost  lots  of  strength,  but  it  is  better 
than  nothing." 

"How  are  you  going  to  use  it?"  asked  Tom. 

"On  those  four  acres  I  have  been  using  for 
prize  corn  and  truck.  I'll  spread  it  on  the  oats, 
then  turn  it  all  under." 

"Fifty  loads  isn't  much  for  four  acres,  Joe," 
suggested  the  major,  who  had  come  out  on  the 
porch  and  heard  the  talk. 

"It's  twelve  and  a  half  loads  to  the  acre. 
That's  a  heap  better  than  none.  I've  got  about 
twenty-five  loads  at  home,  of  a  compost  of 
rotten  leaves  and  stable  scrapings,  full  strength 
and  saved  under  shelter.     I'll  use  that  too." 

"Tell  you  what,"  said  Mr.  Ralston;  "that 
stable  and  cow-lot  of  mine  need  a  good  cleaning, 
anyway.  I  don't  calculate  to  do  any  farming 
much  this  year — there  isn't  enough  there  to  do 
any  material  good  on  my  place  here.  I'll  just 
have  the  lot -boys  scrape  that  stuff  in  piles, 
and  you  can  have  it  if  you  will  haul  it 
off."  " 

"Oh,  say,  now — that's  mighty  fine  of  you, 
Mr.  Ralston!"  exclaimed  Joe,  gratefully.  "It 
will  be  a  big  help  to  me,  because  I'm  needing 
stuff  like  that.     I'm  trying  to  cut  the  cost,  and 

254 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

youVe  saved  me  just  about  fifteen  dollars  in 
expense.' ' 

"By  George,  I'll  do  better  than  that,  then. 
I'll  make  the  lot-boy  haul  it  over  there  for  you — 
I  want  to  see  you  win  the  prize  this  year!" 

Joe  Weston  looked  doubtful.  It  was  a  great 
temptation,  for  he  had  to  charge  in  all  his  time 
expended  on  the  acre  at  eight  cents  an  hour, 
and  the  use  of  a  two-horse  team  and  wagon  at 
two  dollars  a  day,  those  being  the  rules  of  the 
contest.     Then  his  way  suddenly  appeared  clear. 

"Much  obliged,  Mr.  Ralston,  but  I  don't 
believe  it  would  be  just  exactly  right.  I  mean 
it  would  be  actually  helping  me — that  wouldn't 
appear  on  the  record.  It  would  give  me  a 
little  advantage  over  the  others  competing,  and 
I  think  I  ought  not  to  take  it." 

"I  guess  you  are  right,  Joe.  Fight  it  out  on 
the  square,  and  in  case  of  doubt  let  the  other 
fellow  take  the  dubious  chance — that  will  win, 
anyway,"  said  Mr.  Ralston.  The  major  nodded 
approval. 

"I'll  do  that  very  thing,  sir,"  responded  Joe, 
quietly. 

"Seems  to  me  it  would  be  entirely  proper  for 
you  to  take  the  stuff  from  me  as  a  gift  if  I  want 
to  get  it  off  my  premises  to  get  my  lots  clean. 
What  do  you  think,  Major?" 

"No  objection  in  the  world  to  that.  It  is 
255 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

just  a  case  of  where  Joe  is  more  fortunate  than 
others  in  obtaining  it,  but  he  ought  to  haul  it 
himself,  I  think/' 

"That's  the  way  I  look  at  it,"  said  Joe. 

"Albright;  I'll  start  those  two  darkies  to-day 
to  scraping  it  up  in  piles,  and  you  can  commence 
hauling  when  you  are  ready,"  said  Mr.  Ralston. 

"I'll  begin  to-morrow  soon  after  daylight." 

"Oh,  here  now — that's  too  early!"  objected 
Tom,  who  was  to  make  his  first  actual  trial  of 
farm-work  when  Joe  started. 

"No,  sirree — not  when  you  are  paying  two 
dollars  a  day  for  a  team  and  fighting  every 
cent  of  expense.  Day  begins  at  daylight  and 
ends  at  dark.  I'll  get  fifteen  loads  a  day  hauled 
— maybe  more." 

"Want  me  to  help?"  Tom  was  hopeful  that 
Joe  would  refuse. 

"If  you  are  going  into  this  thing  sure  enough 
to  learn,  you  better  get  a  shovel  and  be  on  hand 
when  I  come  over  for  the  first  load,"  answered 
Joe. 

"Tom  will  be  there,"  interrupted  his  father, 
dryly.  "He's  started  this  thing  about  wanting 
to  learn  farming;  now  he's  got  to  keep  it  up." 

"Oh,  I'm  no  quitter!"  asserted  Tom,  getting 
red.  "Had  no  idea  of  dodging.  I'll  be  there, 
and  I'll  work,  too!" 

"All  right;  see  you  later!"  Joe  Weston 
256 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

mounted  the  pony  brought  to  the  front  door 
for  him,  and,  waving  a  farewell,  loped  down  the 
road  toward  home. 

"Howdy,  stranger.  Light,  an'  rest  your  sad- 
dle !"  called  his  father,  pretending  not  to  know 
him  after  his  absence. 

"Believe  I  will.  Here,  ma;  here's  a  half  a 
dozen  squirrels  and  a  nice  fat  little  wild-turkey 
hen,  all  dressed  for  you."  Joe  handed  over 
the  bundle.  "Those  squirrels  will  make  a  bully 
pie — and  I  guess  you  know  what  to  do  with 
that  wild  turkey."  The  game  had  been  care- 
fully cleaned  and  kept  on  ice  in  the  big  refrig- 
erator at  the  Ralstons\ 

"Mighty  glad  to  get  "em,"  said  his  mother. 
"Looks  to  me  like  youVe  put  on  a  few  pounds 
lately,  Joe." 

"Wouldn't  be  surprised  —  at  the  rate  I've 
been  eating,"  chuckled  Joe. 

"We've  been  livin'  pretty  high  ourselves  since 
you've  been  running  with  those  Yankee  million- 
aire folks,"  said  Mr.  Weston.  "Bear,  deer, 
birds,  wild  turkey,  squirrels — and  you  gettin' 
paid  for  it,  too!" 

"Well,  come  to  think  of  it,  the  scheme  is 
pretty  fine;  but,  then,  pa,  think  of  all  the  hard 
years  we've  had — no  fun  and  powerful  poor 
eating,"  suggested  Joe,  soberly. 

"That's  so;  and  I've  about  come  to  the  idee 
17  *  257 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

that  the  harder  a  man  works  the  more  fun  he's 
goin'  to  have  some  time  or  other,  an*  the  more 
he  appreciates  it  when  it  does  come." 

"  Sorter  looks  that  way,  don't  it?"  agreed  Joe. 
''Well,  we've  got  to  get  busy  now.  Come  on, 
le's  round  up  the  calves  and  stock.  I'm  going 
to  turn  them  in  on  the  oats.  To-morrow  I  want 
the  wagon  and  team — I  start  to  hauling  manure." 

"Where  from?    The  stable?" 

"No.  Mr.  Ralston  told  me  I  could  have 
about  fifty  loads  over  there  if  I'd  haul  it  off." 

"Say  now,  that's  fine,  ain't  it?" 

"Biggest  help  to  me  I  can  think  of,"  said  Joe. 

"Well,  you  get  on  the  pony  and  drive  the 
stock  up  from  th'  paster,  an'  I'll  open  the  gates. 
My,  won't  they  have  a  picnic  on  them  tender 
oats!" 

The  twenty-three  calves  Joe  and  his  father 
had  picked  up  for  an  average  of  two  dollars 
and  a  quarter  each  were  already  beginning  to 
show  the  effects  of  good  treatment  and  care. 
They  went  after  the  succulent  young  oats,  now 
something  over  shoe-top  high,  voraciously,  as 
did  the  cows  and  horses. 

"Ain't  that  a  pair  of  little  beauties,  though?" 
inquired  Joe,  indicating  two  fawn-colored  heifer 
calves. 

"They  are  that — and  more  than  two-thirds 
Jersey.     They  ought  to  make  good  milk  cows." 

258 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"  They're  too  fine  to  sell  for  beef.  Le's  just 
keep  them  and  raise  them.  And  that  black-and- 
white  spotted  one,  too,"  suggested  Joe. 

1 '  Where'd  you  get  that  one  ?  Looks  to  me  like 
she's  got  a  heap  o'  Holstein  in  her,"  said  Mr. 
Weston. 

"Got  her  from  that  Walker  boy,  and  she  has 
got  Holstein  in  her.  Made  me  pay  three  and 
a  half  for  her  on  that  account." 

"Well,  she's  wuth  ten  of  anybody's  money 
as  she  stands  right  now.  With  two  Jerseys  and 
the  old  cow,  and  this  calf  of  the  old  cow's  and 
a  Holstein,  we  ought  to  be  selling  considerable 
butter  in  about  three  years — with  what  other 
good  calves  we  can  pick  up,"  suggested  Mr. 
Weston. 

"I  think  so.  And  there's  another  heifer  in 
that  bunch  that  shows  signs  of  Jersey,  too. 
I'm  in  favor  of  keeping  her." 

"Ain't  no  better  breed  in  the  world  for 
furnishin'  rich  milk  to  make  butter  from.  After 
while,  when  we're  able,  I'm  for  getting  a  herd 
of  thoroughbred  Jerseys,"  asserted  Mr.  Weston. 
"We  can  sell  the  butter  at  a  good  profit,  and 
there  isn't  a  better  feed  on  earth  for  pigs  and 
chickens  than  buttermilk." 

"Ain't  these  farmers  fools  to  sell  them  calves 
for  a  little  or  nothin'  like  they  have  done? 
JNow  just  look  at  this  herd — actually  hasn't  cost 

«59 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

us  three  dollars  outlay  for  feed,  except  some 
cotton-seed  meal  for  those  scrawny,  pore,  weak, 
starved  little  fellers.  They  won't  cost  us  any- 
thing much  next  winter;  we'll  raise  enough 
stuff  here  to  carry  'em  through.  By  this  fall 
a  year  they'll  be  wuth  twenty-five  dollars 
apiece  of  any  man's  money,"  Mr.  Weston 
mused,  as  he  leaned  over  the  gate  and  watched 
the  contented  cattle. 

"We'll  make  something  like  five  hundred 
dollars  clear  on  the  idea,  and  get  three  or  four 
good  milch  cows,  too,"  added  Joe. 

"Then  think.  We've  returned  the  feed  an' 
humus  to  the  soil  and  been  able  to  make  many 
a  ton  of  manure  to  build  up  the  land.  That 
is  wuth  two  hundred  dollars  cash  itself,  for  we 
won't  have  to  buy  as  much  commercial  stuff," 
suggested  the  older  man. 

"Isn't  it  wonderful,  pa,  how  this  business  of 
progressing  opens  up — one  thing  from  another? 
And  it  is  all  so  plain  and  so  sensible  and  ac- 
cordin'  to  reason." 

"It  sure  is!" 

"And  just  to  think,  we  haven't  got  started 
good  yet,  pa!  Why,  we're  in  the  A,  B,  C  class 
yet  compared  with  those  farmers  up  North 
and  in  the  Middle  West.  They  are  the  best 
farmers  in  the  world,  I  reckon." 

•'I  guess  they've  forgot  more  things  about 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

good  farmin'  than  we  know,"  agreed  his  father, 
enjoying  the  sight  of  the  calves  as  they  reaped 
the  young  oats. 

"  Speakin'  of  A,  B,  C's,  Joe,  I'm  sorter  pestered 
about  your  droppin'  school  like  you  have.  Do 
you  think  it's  a  good  idee,  son?"  Mr.  Weston 
had  of  late  become  painfully  aware  of  his  own 
educational  limitations. 

"No,  sir;  but  it  couldn't  be  helped  this  year. 
Besides,  I  can  read  well,  and  do  read  all  the 
time,  and  I'm  learning  things.  And  to  tell  the 
truth,  I've  got  about  as  far  as  I  can  go  in  this 
little  school  here.  That  is  a  mighty  poor 
teacher." 

"Well,  you  can't  expect  much  of  a  teacher 
at  thirty-five  dollars  a  month.  She  does  the 
best  she  can,  I  reckon,"  said  Mr.  Weston, 
charitably. 

"Looks  to  me  like  the  state  ought  to  pay  more 
and  get  better  teachers  for  the  country  schools. 
At  any  rate,  I'm  reading  my  school-books  when 
I  have  a  chance — and  reading  these  bulletins 
will  help  me.  Education  is  knowing  things 
useful  to  you." 

"Who  told  you  that,  son?" 

"The  President.  He  said  there  wasn't  any 
more  sense  in  packing  a  lot  of  useless  junk 
around  in  your  head  than  in  hauling  it  about 
in  a  wagon." 

261 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"B'lieve  he's  right !" 

"I  know  he's  right!  I'm  trying  to  educate 
myself  to  be  a  first-class  farmer.  She  wants  to 
make  me  study  chemistry — not  agricultural 
chemistry.  She  wants  to  make  me  study 
algebra  and  astronomy.  I've  got  about  as 
much  use  for  them  as  that  calf  there  has.  Take 
yourself,  pa.  You  see  what  you've  learned 
from  reading  good  agricultural  books.  Well, 
I've  been  learning,  too!" 

"If  you  get  that  scholarship  to  that  agricul- 
tural school  it  '11  be  a  big  help  to  you." 

"Yes,  and  along  the  line  I  want  to  learn. 
I'm  going  to  win  it,  too — you  remember  that." 

"Competition's  goin'  to  be  fierce!"  warned 
his  father. 

"Yes,  but  I've  another  scheme,  and  it's  real 
easy,  too." 

"How — for  goodness'  sake?" 

"Well,  it's  simple.  Just  in  making  as  much 
corn  as  I  did  last  year,  maybe  a  few  bushels 
more,  but  in  holding  down  the  expense  in 
making  it." 

Mr.  Weston  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 

"You  see,  I  showed  'em  how  to  make  a  big 
crop  last  year.  It's  easy.  Just  pile  in  the  fer- 
tilizer after  the  ground  has  been  well  prepared, 
and  keep  it  worked  good — and  every  boy  is 
going  to  plunge  hard  on  commercial  fertilizer 

262 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

and  nitrate  of  soda  and  potash  and  labor. 
They  are  not  going  to  stop  to  figure  the  cost.,, 

"I  begin  to  see  the  point,"  grinned  Mr. 
Weston. 

"Well,  this  contest  is  judged  as  much  on  the 
low  cost  of  producing  the  corn  as  on  the  amount. 
If  I  equal  the  best  in  the  amount  and  beat  them 
on  the  cost,  I  win,  don't  I?" 

"That's  business,  that's  business!"  enthused 
his  father. 

"But  you're  bound  to  use  some  nitrate  and 
stuff?" 

"Yes,  sir.  The  land  isn't  rich  enough  yet 
to  make  a  big  crop  without  it,  but  every  pound 
of  barn-yard  stuff  I  put  in  makes  it  necessary 
to  use  less  commercial  stuff." 

"I'll  help  every  way  I  can.  If  you  see  where 
I  can  be  of  any  use,  count  on  me,"  assured  his 
father. 

The  talk  then  drifted  to  business  methods  in 
farming.  Joe  told  Mr.  Weston  about  what  Mr. 
Ralston  had  said  about  utilizing  the  by-products 
in  the  factory  and  the  waste  steam.  Mr. 
Weston  was  actually  trembling  with  eagerness 
and  excitement  at  the  discovery. 

"By  gracious,  that's  it,  that's  it!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "I've  laid  awake  nights  when  you 
was  a  baby,  an'  before,  up  to  a  year  ago,  won- 
derin'  why  it  was  there  never  seemed  to  be  no 

263 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

money  in  farmin\  Jest  a  livin',  an*  a  mighty 
poor  one  at  that,  the  way  most  folks  farm.  It's 
because  they  don't  use  the  by-products  and  the 
waste  steam — an*  the  opportunities !" 

"The  farmers  don't  make  their  places  produce 
all  the  places  can  produce.  A  farm  isn't  any- 
thing but  a  factory,  turning  elements  into  food 
and  stuff,"  said  Joe. 

"Ain't  no  contradictin'  that  at  all,"  said  his 
father.  "Say,  tell  me  that  about  Mr.  Ralston 
an'  the  waste  steam  again — I  want  to  get  the 
story  right?" 

"Mr.  Ralston  said  that  when  he  had  a  small 
factory  he  kept  noticing  the  great  clouds  of 
steam  from  the  exhaust-pipe — that  is  where  it 
is  carried  after  it  has  passed  through  the  cylinder 
of  the  engine  and  turned  loose  in  the  air.  Each 
puff  of  steam  means  that  steam  has  pushed  the 
piston-rod  of  the  cylinder  one  way,  backward 
or  forward. 

"It  looked  like  an  awful  waste  of  coal  and 
wages  for  the  engineer  and  fireman — " 

"Yes,  I  understand  how  an  engine  works; 
I  worked  in  a  sawmill  one  winter,"  said  Mr. 
Weston. 

"So  Mr.  Ralston  had  to  have  more  power  in 
the  shop,  and  he  didn't  feel  able  to  put  in  another 
set  of  boilers  and  buy  a  new  engine,  so  he  just 
transferred  that  steam  after  it  was  used  in  the 

264 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

main  engine  to  a  secondary  engine  and  made 
it  work  again.  It  was  cooling  some  then,  and 
he  ran  the  exhaust-pipe  into  a  condensing  tank 
where  the  steam  turned  back  to  water,  but  it 
was  hot  water,  and  when  it  was  sucked  back  in 
the  boiler  to  be  turned  into  steam  again  it  did 
not  take  but  one-third  the  coal  to  raise  it  back 
to  steam  that  it  took  to  raise  the  cold  water 
to  steam/ ' 

1 '  Well,  I  do  know.  Ain't  that~close  figgerin'  ?' • 
admired  Mr.  Weston. 

"It  saved  Mr.  Ralston  fifteen  hundred  dollars 
a  year  for  coal,  the  cost  of  a  new  engine  and 
boilers,  and  the  pay  of  another  fireman." 

"So,  we  got  to  see  on  the  farm  how  we  can 
take  short  cuts  and  get  all  out  of  the  place 
possible,  like  he  did  with  that  steam?" 

Joe  nodded. 

"Up  at  that  agricultural  college  where  I  want 
to  go  they  have  been  studying  for  years  how 
to  use  the  waste  steam — how  to  make  the  farms 
produce  the  most.  Down  here  we've  been  living 
like  those  calves  and  thinking  just  about  as  much. ' ' 

"Joe,  you've  just  got  to  win  that  scholarship!" 
urged  his  father. 

"I  am  going  to  do  my  dead  level  best,  and  I 
think  I  will  win,"  said  the  lad,  slowly. 

"Have  you  figgered  on  what  you  are  goin' 
to  do  with  the  rest  of  your  patch  here?" 

265 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Well,"  reflected  Joe,  "I  thought  an  acre  of 
early  snap-beans,  an  acre  of  Irish  potatoes,  and 
an  acre  of  tomatoes  would  bring  us  good  money. 
Then  there's  this  advantage:  we  can  get  those 
crops  off  in  time  to  drill  corn  in  there  and  raise 
a  lot  of  provender  for  winter.  It  11  take  a  heap 
to  carry  all  this  stock.' ' 

"That's  right.  Let  the  corn  get  about  tas- 
selin',  then  cut  it  and  dry  it,  and  run  it  through 
a  chopper  as  we  feed  it.  It's  a  fine,  fattenin' 
feed,"  agreed  Mr.  Weston. 

"We  better  drive  to  town  right  after  dinner 
an'  get  the  seed-potatoes  an'  order  the  snap-bean 
seed,  an'  get  the  tomato  seed  too." 

"I  think  so.  It  will  take  about  three  days 
for  those  cattle  to  cut  those  oats  down  close, 
but  there's  nothing  particular  to  do  after  dinner, 
and  it  will  be  a  good  time  to  get  that  trading  in 
town  over  with." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MA,  do  you  know  anything  about  canning 
stuff?"  asked  Joe,  after  full  justice  had 
been  done  to  the  savory  squirrel  pie  and  well- 
baked  turkey  hen,  both  of  which  Joe  had  pro- 
vided. 

"  Powerful  little,  son.     Why?" 

"Well,  if  you  had  a  chance  to  learn,  would 
you?" 

"Of  course,  if  I  had  a  canning  outfit  and 
somethin,  to  can." 

"All  right ;  wait  a  minute."  Joe  left  the  table 
and  returned  with  a  pamphlet  out  of  a  bundle 
of  several  the  mail-carrier  had  left  that  morning. 
"Here  it  is,  one  of  the  government  bulletins — 
gives  you  the  whole  thing  right  here.  If  you'll 
just  study  this  until  you  get  it  fixed  in  your 
mind  I'll  buy  you  a  nice  canning  outfit." 

"That  would  be  mighty  nice,  and  a  big  help 
next  winter,  to  have  plenty  of  canned  huckle- 
berries and  blackberries  and  plums  and  peaches, 
and  things  to  make  pies  of.     We'd  live  high!" 

"I'm  going  to  plant  a  lot  of  tomatoes  and 
snap-beans.     Those  that  ain't  fancy  enough  to 

267 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

sell  you  and  sister  Annie  can  pick  and  put  them 
up.     There'll  be  plenty  of  them.'' 

"I'll  bet  you  could  make  some  money  on 
'em,  wife,"  suggested  Mr.  Weston.  "I  know 
what  they  pay  for  canned  tomatoes,  wholesale." 

"How  much,  pa?"  inquired  Mrs.  Weston. 

"They  pay  the  wholesale  grocers  eighty  cents 
a  dozen,  and  retail  at  ten  cents  a  can— dollar 
twenty  a  dozen.' ' 

"What  do  the  cans  and  all  cost,  to  put  'em 
up?"  persisted  Mrs.  Weston. 

"I  don't  know,  except  from  the  report  of 
the  Girls'  Tomato  Club  work.  It  says  there 
that  the  cans  and  labels  cost  about  a  cent  and 
three-quarters  each,  and  estimate  cost  of  toma- 
toes and  labor  for  each  can  at  a  cent." 

Mrs.  Weston  did  some  mental  arithmetic. 

"Even  then  there's  a  fair  profit  in  it.  The 
person  who  grows  the  tomatoes  and  puts  'em 
up  gets  the  cent.  Really,  the  cost  is  a  cent  and 
three-quarters  a  can,  ain't  it?" 

Her  husband  nodded. 

"I'll  bet  you  could  sell  many  a  dozen  to 
boarding-houses  and  hotels  in  town  at  a  dollar 
a  dozen.  It  would  mean  an  additional  profit 
of  twenty  cents  for  you  and  a  saving  of  twenty 
cents  for  them  over  what  they'd  have  to  pay 
retail,"  suggested  Joe. 

"It  looks  pretty  good,"  announced  Mrs. 
268 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Weston.     "  You  get  me  that  canning  outfit,  and 
I'll  make  a  try  at  it." 

"All  right.  If  I  win  that  scholarship  I  won't 
be  here  next  spring,  ma,  and  you  can  have  my 
prize  corn  acre  to  raise  tomatoes  on,  and  it  won't 
cost  you  a  cent  for  fertilizer.  It  will  be  plenty 
rich.  You  ought  to  clean  up  a  pretty  nice 
pile." 

"All  my  life  I've  wanted  some  way  to  make 
some  money  of  my  own,"  said  Mrs.  Weston. 
"Now  I  see  the  way,  and  I'm  going  to  follow  it. 
You  men  needn't  think  you  are  the  only  money- 
makers. Just  watch  Annie  and  me  with  my 
chickens  and  canning  outfit!" 

"Tell  you  another  scheme,  ma.  I'll  set  aside 
three  nice  spring  pigs.  You  and  Annie  fatten 
'em  up  and  turn  'em  into  that  fine  smoked 
sausage  next  winter.  I'll  bet  you  can  make  a 
lot  on  that,  too." 

"Well,  that's  a  fine  plan — never  thought  of 
it.  And  I  heard  Mis'  Allen  in  town  complainin' 
that  she  couldn't  get  pure  pork  sausage  from 
the  butchers  any  more — they  filled  it  up  with 
beef  scraps!"  enthused  Mrs.  Weston.  "We'll 
try  that  too." 

"Isn't  a  bit  of  reason  in  the  world  why  all 
the  canned  fruit  and  vegetables  farmers  buy 
out  of  stores  shouldn't  be  put  up  on  the  farms— *? 
^ave  a  heap  of  money,' '  reflected  Joe, 

209 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"'Stid  of  that,"  chuckled  Mr.  Weston,  "I 
see  these  here  triflin'  farmers  a-buyin'  canned 
termatters  an*  corn,  an'  such,  an*  haulin'  it  out 
where  it  ought  to  grow  an'  be  saved." 

"I  knows  where  there's  a  big  pile  of  tomato 
cans  behind  the  barn!"  announced  Annie, 
proudly,  trying  to  get  into  the  drift  of  the  con- 
versation. The  whole  family  exploded  into  a 
laugh. 

"I'm  guilty,  sis !"  chuckled  her  father.  ' '  Just 
as  guilty  as  any  of  the  rest  of  'em,  but  I  was 
sort  of  hopin'  nobody  would  throw  it  up  to 
me." 

"We  won't  do  it  any  more,"  assured  Mrs. 
Weston.  "You  get  me  that  canning  outfit,  and 
I'll  start  practisin'  on  early  vegetables — pease, 
beets,  and  such.  Then  by  the  time  tomatoes 
are  ripe  I'll  be  ready  too.  Can  we  afford  it, 
though?  Those  canning  outfits  are  dreadful 
expensive,  ain't  they?"  she  asked,  with  some 
apprehension. 

" Oh,  I  don't  know,"  replied  Joe,  easily.  "The 
one  the  Girls'  Tomato  Clubs  use,  tested  and 
recommended  by  the  experts  of  the  Agricultural 
Department,  costs  about  three  dollars  and  fifty 
cents;  and  the  cans  and  labels  a  cent  and  three- 
quarters — maybe  about  a  cent  and  a  half  if  the 
label  is  not  counted." 

"My  goodness!  I  thought  a  canning  outfit 
270 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

would  cost  twenty  or  twenty -five  or  fifty  dollars, 
or  some  such  awful  price !"  she  exclaimed,  with 
relief. 

"I  had  no  idee  they  were  that  cheap  myself," 
said  Mr.  Weston.  "And  with  'em  as  easy  to 
get  as  that,  just  to  think  of  the  stuff  that  goes 
to  waste  around  these  farms  that  could  be 
saved." 

"Why,  a  canning  outfit  will  save  the  average 
family  like  ours  over  a  hundred  dollars  a  winter, 
easy,"  calculated  Mrs.  Weston. 

"And  that  is  not  counting  in  how  much  better 
folks  can  live.  Just  think  of  huckleberry  pies 
in  midwinter,  blackberries,  strawberries,  plenty 
of  corn  and  tomatoes,  beets,  pease — why,  we  will 
live  like  princes,"  mused  Joe. 

"It  looks  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Weston,  "like 
there  ain't  no  excuse  whatever  for  a  farmer  to 
live  like  we  did  afore  Joe  got  this  Corn  Club 
notion  in  his  head." 

"No,  there  ain't  any  excuse  except  right  down 
ignorance  and  stubbornness,"  assented  his  wife. 

"I  reckon  if  Joe  hadn't  made  that  showin' 
right  under  my  nose  we'd  'a'  been  livin'  just  like 
a  lot  o'  slaves  as  we  had  been  doin' — in  debt, 
ownin'  nothin'  an'  owin'  everything,"  the  head 
of  the  family  continued.  "Look  at  us  now — 
me  gettin'  to  be  a  pretty  fair  book  •  farmer, 
knowin'    the   whys   an'   wherefores   o'    things, 

271 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

payin'  for  land  that  11  be  ours  before  this  year 
ends,  and  in  a  fair  way  to  be  tolerable  well  off 
by  the  time  I'm  old!" 

"Yet,  there's  a  hundred  farmers  that  won't 
see  the  chance  to  one  that  does,"  remarked 
Joe.  "I  was  reading  in  the  paper  where  down 
in  Limestone  County  the  farmers  walked  out  of 
a  meeting  got  up  for  their  benefit  because 
they  said  the  experts  sent  there  to  lecture  and 
show  them  'were  nothing  but  a  lot  of  beardless 
boys.'  The  youngest  expert  was  twenty-five 
years  old.  These  mossbacks  actually  wouldn't 
listen  to  them!" 

"The  poor  old  ignorant  fools!"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Weston.  "They've  been  content  to  make  ten 
and  twenty  bushels  of  corn  an  acre  all  their 
lives  —  and  along  comes  twelve  an'  fourteen 
year-old  chaps  an'  make  two  hundred  an  acre, 
an' better!" 

"'There's  none  so  blind  as  them  that  will 
not  see,'"  said  Mrs.  Weston,  solemnly.  Her 
husband  began  chuckling  to  himself. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  demanded  Joe. 

"Just  thought  o'  somethin.'  The  way  these 
old  mossbacks  won't  believe  what  you  Corn 
Club  boys  are  doin'  right  under  their  noses 
reminds  me  of  a  story  I  heard  on  Hen  Tucker 
before  the  railroad  came  through  this  neck  o' 
the  woods — a  good  while  ago." 

272 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"What  was  it?"  inquired  Mrs.  Weston. 
"Those  Tuckers  used  to  be  awful  ignorant 
folks — I've  hearn  pa  tell  of  'em.  Not  that  we 
was  any  great  shakes  of  wise  people  ourselves, 
but  goodness  knows  they  were  sure  enough 
ignoramuses." 

"Well,"  laughingly  continued  Mr.  Weston, 
"they  tell  it  on  Hen  that  when  the  railroad 
first  come  through  this  neck  o'  the  woods  to 
Crossville  a  circus  come  to  town.  It  was 
fifteen  miles  from  Hen's,  but  he  went.  He 
never  got  no  further'n  the  menagerie  tent. 
There,  in  front  of  a  great  big  elephant  that 
stood  there  a-swayin'  his  trunk  from  side  to 
side,  Hen  took  his  stand.  The  elephant  would 
reach  out  every  once  in  a  while  and  grab  a 
peanut  or  a  wisp  of  hay  and  stuff  it  in  his 
mouth. 

"Hen's  little  boy  got  tired  of  lookin'  at  the 
elephant,  and  began  to  pull  and  tug  at  Hen 
to  get  him  to  move  on.  Hen  kept  his  eyes 
glued  on  that  elephant.  Twice  he  started  off, 
then  he  come  back  and  took  his  stand.  By  that 
time  his  little  boy  was  bellerin'  like  a  bull 
yearlin',  so  a  showman  told  Hen  he'd  have  to 
get  out  with  that  racket,  it  made  the  animals 
nervous. 

"Finally,  Hen  took  one  more  good  long  look 
at  the  elephant,  turned  to  go,  looked  back 
18  273 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

ag'in,  jammed  his  hat  down  over  his  face,  an* 
started  out,  a-draggin'  his  bawlin'  youngster. 

'"Doggone  hit!'  says  Hen,  'I  don't  keer  what 
nobody  says — there  jest  hain't  no  sich  er  animal 
like  that!' 

"And  that,"  observed  Mr.  Weston,  "is  just 
like  some  of  these  farmers.  Tell  'em  they  can 
make  a  hundred  bushels  of  corn  an  acre  nearly 
as  easy  as  they  make  ten,  an'  they  won't  listen ; 
show  'em  two  hundred,  an'  they  won't  believe 
it  an'  hate  you  for  showin'  it  to  'em.  Just 
like  Hen  Tucker — won't  believe  even  their  own 
eyes." 

"We'd  better  be  getting  on  to  town,"  sug- 
gested Joe. 

"Law,  yes!  I  forgot  it.  Le's  put  Link  to 
scrapin'  the  cow-lot  while  we  are  gone.  To- 
morrow he  can  help  in  the  loading.     Come  on." 

The  orders  were  delivered  to  Link,  who  had 
become  a  sincere  admirer  and  imitator  of  Joe. 
The  colored  boy  paused  a  minute  in  his  work. 

"Mister  Joe,  will  yo'  gimme  a  few  yeahs  o' 
dat  cawn?"  he  asked. 

"What  for,  Link?" 

"Well,  suh,  I  been  watchin'  yo\  Las'  yeah 
I  raised  a  tollerbul  little  patch  o'  cawn  whut 
I  worked  sorter  like  yo'  did.  I  didn'  git  de 
idee  through  dis  yere  thick  haid  er  mine  soon 
ernuff,  but  I  sho  is  gwine  plant  me  a  acre  o' 

274 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

cawn  dis  spring — an'  make  somethin'  on  hit, 
too." 

"Why,  yes,  Link,  111  give  you  some  corn. 
Can't  spare  much.     Got  your  fertilizer  on  yet?" 

"Partly.  I  been  savin*  stuff  outen  our  stable 
an'  scrapin'  up  de  dropping  in  de  cow  paster, 
an'  totin'  leaves." 

"All  right,  I'll  help  you  all  I  can.  Got  any- 
body to  break  your  land  yet?  That's  one  of 
the  main  things — get  it  broke  deep." 

"Mister  Hennerson  'lowed  he'd  break  hit 
deep  an'  cross-break  an  harrer  hit  fer  three 
dollars,  an'  I'm  savin'  up  fer  hit.  Got  er  dollar 
an'  six  bits  now." 

"It  ought  to  be  done  soon,  Link;  that  stuff 
ought  to  be  turned  under  and  rotting,"  said  Joe. 

"I  knows  hit,  Mister  Joe,  but  whut  is  er 
pusson  gwine  do  wid  no  money  an'  no  credick?" 
The  negro  boy  was  puzzled. 

"Anybody  that's  tryin'  to  make  somethin' 
o'  themselves  is  never  goin'  to  suffer  for  help — 
just  you  remember  that,  Link.  I'll  break  that 
acre  for  you — do  it  in  the  next  week — an'  let 
you  pay  me  in  corn  when  you  gather  your  crop," 
said  Mr.  Weston. 

"Gee,  dat's  mighty  good  o'  yo'!" 

"You  pay  me  three  dollars'  worth  of  corn  at 
forty  cents  a  bushel;  that  '11  fatten  3  hog  for 
me,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

*75 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Dat  sho  is  er  trade !"  agreed  Link. 

"I'll  give  you  enough  seed-corn  to  plant  the 
acre,  Link,"  said  Joe,  kindly. 

"'Bleeged  ter  yo',  'bleeged  ter  yo',  boss!" 

"What  do  you  want  to  go  to  growin'  corn 
for,  Link?"  inquired  Mr.  Weston,  with  curi- 
osity.    Link  grinned. 

"Well,  suh,  I  seed  how  po'  yo'  folkses  wuz, 
an'  dat  yo'  is  gettin'  on  in  de  worl'  powerful 
well  now  since  yo'  got  ter  farmin,  reel  skyen- 
tifick."  He  seemed  immensely  proud  of  the 
word.  "I  seed  whut  er  pusson  kin  do  wid  dis 
yere  groun'  an'  make  hit  do  when  yo'  knows  how 
an'  ain'  skeered  ter  use  elbow-grease.  An*  I 
'lows  ter  merse'f :  '  Link,  is  yo'  gwine  grow  up  er 
triflin'  nigger  an'  no  'count,  or  is  yo'  gwine  own 
er  fawm  an'  be  som'p'n'?'  " 

"That's  right,  Link,"  encouraged  Mr.  Weston. 
"That's  the  way  to  look  at  it." 

"So  I's  gwine  raise  all  de  cawn  I  kin  on  dat 
acre.  Daddy  done  promise  I  kin  have  whut 
I  makes,  same  es  yo'  did,  Mister  Joe.  I'll  sell 
de  cawn  dis  fall,  buy  me  some  clo'es  an'  school- 
books,  an'  go  ter  school  er  while.  Odd  times  I'll 
be  wuckin'  on  dat  acre  gettin'  hit  rich,  an'  nex' 
year  I'll  raise  er  sho  'nuff  crap.  Den  atter 
while  I'll  have  some  book-1'arnin'  an'  money 
ernufT  ter  go  ter  Booker  Washin't'n's  school  an' 
learn  all  about  farmin'." 

37$ 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"You  and  I  are  working  for  just  about  the 
same  thing,  Link,"  said  Joe.  "It's  bound  to 
win,  and,  moreover,  you  can  just  count  on  me 
to  help  you  as  much  as  I  can.  Now  get  busy 
on  that  lot  scraping  it.  We've  got  to  go  to 
town." 

Mr.  Weston  and  Joe  spent  no  unnecessary  time 
in  town.  As  they  drove  down  the  main  street  with 
the  new  wagon  and  a  well-fed  team  Mr.  Weston 
waved  at  one  or  two  of  his  old  cronies  hanging 
about  the  door  of  a  pool-room  suspected  of 
being  a  "blind  tiger,"  where  liquor  was  sold 
unlawfully.  The  men  hardly  returned  his  greet- 
ing. One  of  the  fellows  wiped  his  suspiciously 
red  nose  and  glared  at  the  wagon  speeding  down 
the  thoroughfare. 

"Now,  don't  he  think  he's  some  punkins!" 
snarled  the  red-nosed  one.  "Bet  he  bought  all 
that  stuff  on  a  credick!" 

1  *  Oh,  yeah.  Weston  thinks  him  an'  that  there 
smart  Aleck  brat  er  his'n  knows  hit  all.  Ain't 
got  no  time  ter  be  soshyble  with  folks  at  all," 
said  another. 

"You  dern  fellers  can  knock  on  Weston  an' 
his  boy  all  you  want,  but  he'll  have  that  place 
paid  for  this  fall,  an'  his  check's  good  at  the  bank. 
I  know;  I  sold  him  a  couple  of  calves,"  said 
another  farmer,  who  had  contented  himself  with 
buying   a   plug   of   tobacco.     "An'    that,"    he 

277 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

observed,  as  he  bit  off  a  corner  of  his  plug,  "is 
a  doggone  sight  more  than  ary  one  of  us  can 
say." 

"Looks  like  he  thinks  he's  better'n  us," 
argued  the  red-nosed  one,  "since  he's  gettin' 
along  in  the  world." 

"'Tain't  that,"  responded  Weston's  defender. 
"He  just  ain't  got  time  to  fool  away.  He's 
headed  somewhere  definite.  It  would  be  a  good 
thing  if  we  was  too — an'  by  jingo,  I  will  be 
soon.  If  that  low-down,  trirlin,  no-'count,  lazy, 
whinin'  Weston  can  pull  himself  up  to  where 
he  is  an'  where  he's  headin',  I  reckon  I  can 
do  some  considerable  better  myself.  I'm  goin' 
over  an'  see  what  his  methods  are.  An'  what's 
more,  I  made  my  boy  join  the  Corn  Club  this 
year." 

"They  say  that  kid  of  his'n  did  make  some 
tremenjus  crop  o'  corn,"  observed  the  third 
man. 

"He  did,  for  a  fact.  I  seen  hit  growin,,  an' 
I  seen  hit  when  hit  was  bein'  gathered.  Beat 
anything  I  ever  seen  in  this  world." 

"When  you  goin'  over  to  see  him,  Bill?" 
asked  the  red-nosed  one,  beginning  to  capitulate. 

"Thought  I'd  ride  over  thataway  Sunday." 

"I'll  jest  come  too.  Reckon  he'd  mind  tellin' 
us  how  he  does  it?" 

"Sure  he  won't,  an'  you're  dead  wrong  when 
278 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

you  think  he's  stuck  up.  The  man's  just  busy 
now,  tryin'  to  make  up  for  lost  time." 

"AH  three  of  us  will  go,"  said  the  third  man. 
"Danged  if  I  ain't  tired  of  havin'  nothin';  an' 
if  Weston  has  found  the  way  to  make  money 
farmin'  I  want  to  know  it.  I'll  meet  you  at 
the  schoolhouse  at  two  o'clock." 

Mr.  Weston  and  Joe  did  not  linger  in  town. 
The  seed-potatoes  were  loaded,  a  bushel  of 
Valentine  bush-beans  were  ordered,  tomato  seed 
purchased,  and  two  hundred  pounds  of  kainite 
bought  to  plow  under  on  the  corn  acre  with  all 
the  barn-yard  stuff,  the  idea  being  to  furnish 
plenty  of  material  to  mature  the  ears,  as  well 
as  the  nitrogen  and  potash  in  the  manure, 
which  went  mainly  toward  growth  of  leaf  and 
stalk. 

They  stopped  by  the  sawmill  and  bought 
enough  pieces  of  lumber  two  by  four  inches 
square,  and  three  feet  longer  than  the  wagon- 
bed.  Arriving  home,  the  pieces  were  shaved  off 
round  for  a  foot  at  each  end  to  form  a  handle, 
then  placed  on  the  wagon  instead  of  the  bed. 
Two  planks  twelve  inches  broad  were  placed 
on  edge  at  the  sides:  two  pieces  of  the  same 
width  cut  to  fit  crosswise  in  grooves  made  by 
nailing  inch-square  slats  on  each  side-board,  and 
behold,  a  collapsible  wagon-bed  was  complete! 

"Now,"  said  Mr.  Weston,  surveying  the  job 
279 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

with  satisfaction,  "I  figger  that'll  save  a  world 
o'  time.  'Stid  of  havin'  to  shovel  each  load 
out,  shovelful  at  a  time,  all  you  got  to  do  is 
pull  out  them  end  pieces,  lift  each  of  these  here 
two-by-fours  separately,  and  the  stuff  falls  to 
the  ground.  Make  the  team  pull  up  a  bit  as 
you  move  each  timber,  an'  you've  got  it  pretty 
well  spread  in  a  few  minutes.  It  would  take 
fifteen  minutes  to  unload  that  wagon  with  a 
shovel.     You  do  it  in  two  minutes  this  way," 

Everybody  went  to  bed  early,  and  at  the  first 
graying  of  the  sky  next  morning  Joe  was  up 
and  dressed.  He  fed  the  team,  then  came  in, 
and  his  mother  soon  had  a  quick  breakfast  for 
him.  When  he  finished,  the  horses  had  got 
through  with  their  ration.  His  father  helped 
him  hitch  up  and  opened  the  gate  for  him  and 
waved  him  good-by  as  the  team  trotted  smartly 
down  the  road  to  the  Ralston  plantation. 

Tom  was  on  hand,  dressed  in  a  new  suit  of 
overalls,  and  strove  valiantly  with  a  shovel  to 
assist  in  the  loading.  It  came  very  awkwardly 
to  him,  though.  The  two  lot-boys  helped  load, 
and  in  five  minutes'  time  Joe  started  back  with 
a  whopping  big  load  of  the  precious  fertilizer. 
Tom  placed  the  seat  and  climbed  up. 

"Get  off!"  commanded  Joe.  "I'm  going  to 
walk  myself  as  long  as  I  can.  I  weigh  a  hundred 
and  twenty-nine — you  about  the  same.    Two 

280 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

hundred  and  fifty  or  sixty  pounds  on  ten  loads 
is  equal  to  the  weight  of  more  than  another 
load  or  a  load  and  a  half,"  he  explained,  as  they 
trudged  beside  the  team.  "  These  roads  are 
none  too  good,  and  I've  got  to  make  the  strength 
of  these  horses  go  as  far  as  I  can." 

"  You'll  lose  time  walking,"  argued  Tom. 

"Maybe  later  in  the  day  I'll  ride,  but  I  won't 
as  long  as  I'm  fresh.  The  more  stuff  I  can 
haul  each  load  the  quicker  I  can  get  the  stuff 
on  the  land  and  charge  off  this  two  dollars  a 
day  for  the  team  and  eight  cents  an  hour  for 
myself.     I'm  fighting  expenses." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  work  of  hauling  and  dumping  went 
forward  steadily,  and  when  night  came 
seventeen  loads  had  been  hauled  and  placed  on 
the  acre. 

Joe  figured  that  he  saved  at  least  two  days' 
time  by  the  loose-bottom  method  of  dumping 
the  loads.  The  work  of  hauling  was  completed 
on  the  third  day — forty-six  loads  in  all — and 
every  bit  went  on  the  corn  acre.  Then  the 
young  oats  and  the  fertilizer  were  turned  under. 
The  ground  was  already  mellow  and  full  of  vege- 
table matter. 

"In  one  more  year  this  will  be  the  best  piece 
of  land  in  the  whole  county,"  remarked  Joe. 
"It  will  make  a  hundred  bushels  of  corn  and 
maybe  more  next  year,  without  another  pound 
of  barn-yard  fertilizer  or  an  ounce  of  commercial 
stuff." 

Link  and  Mrs.  Weston  and  Annie  had  busied 
themselves  cutting  up  the  Irish  potatoes  for 
the  seed  to  plant,  being  careful  to  leave  at  least 
two  "eyes,"  from  which  the  sprouts  would 
come,  on  each  piece  of  potato.     It  was  a  tremen- 

282 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

dous  job.  Joe  occupied  the  next  day  sweeping 
up  leaves  in  the  grove,  packing  them  across 
the  road  in  sacks  to  spread  in  the  rows.  After 
the  potato-cutting  was  under  way  and  the  end 
in  sight,  Link  was  called  into  the  game  and 
helped  with  the  leaves. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Weston  plowed  the  acre 
for  the  potatoes,  turning  it  under  deeply,  cross- 
breaking  and  harrowing.  The  year's  work  on 
the  land  in  turning  under  stuff  had  helped  it 
wonderfully. 

The  rows  were  then  laid  off  with  the  bull- 
tongue  plow,  and  Link  and  Joe  commenced 
dropping  the  potatoes  in,  after  first  scattering 
a  liberal  quantity  of  vegetable-grower  commer- 
cial fertilizer  in  the  bottom  of  the  rows.  Then 
the  sacks  of  leaves  were  taken  and  the  seed- 
potato  pieces  covered  three  or  four  inches  deep. 
One  of  the  horses  was  hitched  to  a  drag  made  of 
a  square  piece  of  timber  eight  feet  long,  and 
which  was  hitched  by  a  single  tree  to  the  horse. 
Joe  stood  on  the  timber  and  drove  the  horse  at 
right  angles  to  the  rows.  It  covered  the  pota- 
toes perfectly  and  packed  the  dirt  on  them, 
and  at  the  same  time  smoothed  the  surface  of 
the  field. 

Link  looked  on,  and  finally  scratched  his 
head  reflectively  as  he  remarked : 

"Dat  looks  ter  me  like  er  funny  way  ter 
283 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

plant  'taters.  I  allers  seen  'em  planted  in 
hills." 

"Most  folks  do  that  for  two  reasons — one 
to  keep  the  water  from  standing  on  the  seed 
and  rotting  them,  and  the  other  is  to  have  plen- 
ty of  loose  dirt  to  keep  the  seed  moist  and  for 
the  young  potatoes  to  develop  in." 

"Well,  whut's  de  reason  o'  dis?" 

"Ever  notice  an  Irish-potato  plant  with  a 
root  and  young  potatoes  on  it?" 

"Nossuh." 

"Well,  I  pulled  one  up  and  studied  it.  The 
young  potatoes  are  formed  above  the  roots 
which  grow  from  the  bottom  of  the  main  stem. 
I  put  those  leaves  in  there  above  the  part  that 
will  be  the  root  to  give  a  loose  place  for  the 
young  potatoes  to  develop.  And  it  will  make 
the  potatoes  cleaner  and  larger." 

"Uh  huh,  I  sorter  sees." 

"And  if  I  had  planted  in  high  hills  I  would 
have  had  to  cultivate  with  hoes,  wouldn't  I? 
There's  no  plow  that  would  do  any  good,  is 
there,  on  hills  'most  a  foot  high?" 

Link  shook  his  head. 

"So,  this  way,  for  the  first  two  workings  I'll 
use  a  horse  and  cultivator  and  get  it  done  in 
short  order.  The  last  working,  when  the  pota- 
toes are  forming,  I'll  run  a  plow  through  and 
throw  the  dirt  on  either  side  right  against  the 

284 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

potato  plants.  That  will  make  a  hill,  and  give 
plenty  of  room  for  the  young  potatoes  to  grow 
in,  won't  it?" 

"Yeah — an'  hit  won't  be  baked  by  de  sun 
an'  hard;  hit '11  be  loose  at  de  very  time  when 
it's  needed  loose!"  exclaimed  the  darky. 

"That's  what  I  thought.  I  never  heard  of 
anybody  else  planting  potatoes  this  way,  but 
it  looks  like  reason  and  common  sense  to  me. 
Don't  you  think  so?  There's  no  reason  to  put 
hills  here  at  first,  because  the  land  is  well  drained 
and  deep  plowed.     Water  won't  stand  on  it." 

"Seems  sensibul  to  me,"  agreed  Link.  "Mis- 
ter Joe,  what  made  yo'  think  o'  dat  way  to 
plant  pertaters?" 

"Wanted  to  do  the  work  at  less  cost  and 
make  a  profit." 

"Mister  Joe,  just  persizely  whut  is  er  'profit'? 
I  ain'  never  got  dat  right  in  mer  min'  yit. 
I  knows  'bout  Bible  prophets,  but  what's  dis 
kin'  yo'  is  allers  talkin'  erbout?" 

"The  less  it  costs  you  to  make  a  crop  of  corn 
or  potatoes,  the  more  you  make  when  you 
sell,  because  you  don't  have  to  deduct  from  the 
price  you  get  the  increased  cost  of  making  the 
crop.  It's  the  difference  between  what  it  costs 
you  to  make  a  crop  and  what  your  stuff 
brings." 

"But  4is  yere  'tater  crop  ain't   costin'  yo' 
285 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

nothin'  'cept  de  seed,  two  dollars'  wuth  o' 
fertilizer,  an'  de  time  wuckin'  hit?" 

"That's  it — time  can  be  turned  into  money. 
The  less  time  it  takes  to  make  these  potatoes, 
the  more  time  I  will  have  to  put  on  something 
else  to  make  money  on.     See?" 

"I  does,"  said  Link,  proudly.  "I  want's  ter 
learn  dese  things,  kaze  I's  gwine  be  er  farmer 
like  yo'  is  gwine  ter  be,  sho  as  yo'  bawn." 

That  night  Joe  got  down  the  nicely  bound 
blank-book  he  had  purchased  for  a  quarter  in 
town  and  prepared  to  open  his  account  of 
operations  for  the  year.  The  rules  of  the  Corn 
Club  contest  required  that  every  move  he  made, 
with  dates  and  items  of  expense,  be  noted  as 
made. 

Before  going  to  work  on  his  book  he  told 
about  how  Link  had  finally  gotten  the  idea 
that  time  was  money.     Mr.  Weston  laughed. 

"That  reminds  me  of  another  story  they  tell 
on  Hen  Tucker.  He  was  in  town  one  day,  and 
a  feller  was  on  the  street  sellin'  a  new  kind  of 
incubator.  Hen  stood  right  in  front  of  the 
crowd,  mouth  open,  takin'  it  all  in.  The  man 
explained  that  the  incubator  would  do  the 
work,  and  the  settin'  hens  could  be  put  back  to 
work  layin'. 

"  'Ain't  it  a  wonder,  friend?  Don't  you  think 
it's  fine — ain't  it  a  time-saver?'  preached  the. 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

agent.  Tucker  thought  it  was  up  to  him  to 
say  something,  so  he  kind  o'  gasped,  his  mouth 
workin'  like  that  of  a  perch  out  o'  water. 

" '  Aw,  shucks,'  sezze,  try-in'  to  show  the  crowd 
how  smart  he  was.  'What's  the  use  o'  that 
contraption?  What's  time  to  a  settin'  hen, 
anyhow?'  I  thought  that  crowd  would  bust 
their  sides  laughin'.  Everybody  used  to  call 
'im  Henry  before  that,  but  they  got  to  callin' 
him  'Settin'  Hen',  an'  then  it  got  down  to 
'Hen,'  an'  that's  been  his  name  ever  since." 

After  the  laugh  had  subsided  Joe  made  the 
first  entry  in  his  book. 

''February  20,  21,  22:  Hauled  forty-six 
loads  barn-yard  fertilizer  and  dumped  on  acre. 
Twenty-two  of  said  loads  cow-lot  scrapings; 
balance,  horse-lot.  Badly  leached  by  exposure 
to  weather.     No  cost  for  said  fertilizer. 

"Same  date:  Hire  of  team  and  wagon  to 
haul,  $2.00  a  day;  two  full  days  and  part  of 
third  day,  $4.40;  wages  of  self  at  8  cents  per 
hour,  $2.20.    Total,  $6.60." 

' '  Whew !' '  Joe  commented.  ' '  That  is  'mount- 
ing up  fast!" 

"Well,  but  it's  cuttin'  down  on  commercial 
fertilizer  an'  buildin'  up  the  land  permanent." 

"Yes,  but  I  can't  charge  off  any  of  that  per- 
manent benefit  to  next  year  and  the  year  after. 
This  crop  has  got  to  bear  the  whole  burden." 

287 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Does  look  like  some  of  it  ought  to  go  on 
next  year.  Big  job  to  figger  out  all  these 
things." 

"I  guess  we'd  better  slap  that  stuff  we've 
got  saved  on  that  acre  and  bed  it  up  now. 
It's  pretty  strong,  and  it  might  go  to  burning 
the  crop  in  hot  weather  if  we  don't  let  it  lie 
in  the  ground  before  planting  on  it." 

"Great  goodness,  there's  that  team  again! 
Two  dollars  a  day!"  groaned  Joe.  "And  my 
wages,  too!" 

"Well,  I'll  help  load,  an'  make  Link  help 
unload." 

"Nope."  Joe  shook  his  head.  "Got  to 
figure  you  at  a  dollar  a  day  and  Link  at  the 
rate  of  two-fifty  a  week." 

"All  right,  then;  if  you  got  me  hired  by  the 
day  I'll  work  my  level  best.  Between  the  three 
of  us  and  the  short  haul  we  ought  to  get  that 
stuff  on  there  in  a  day." 

"Sure  ought,"  said  Joe,  with  hope. 

"An',  long's  you  got  me  hired  by  the  day, 
if  we  got  any  time  left  I'll  just  take  the  team 
and  bed  that  acre  up  for  you  then?" 

"Hope  you'll  have  time  to." 

"I'll  see  you  get  about  the  biggest  day's 
work  I  ever  have  done,  boy!"  said  his  father, 
reassuringly. 

"Link  '11  sure  hustle  too  when  he  knows  that 
288 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

it  will  help  me,"  added  Joe.  He  was  comforted 
with  the  reflection. 

"Aw,  cheer  up!  Don't  be  so  glum.  If  you 
get  about  twenty-five  loads  of  first-class,  high- 
power  fertilizer  on  there,  an'  get  that  acre 
bedded  up  ready  to  plant,  for  less  than  five 
dollars  you  ought  to  be  proud  of  it." 

"Well,  I've  got  to  win  largely  with  this  stuff. 
I'm  lot  going  to  be  able  to  spend  much  for 
nitrate  and  such." 

"Say,  what  was  the  lowest  cost  that  corn 
was  made  in  the  contest  last  year — I  mean 
up  in  the  class  better  than  a  hundred  bushels  to 
the  acre?"  inquired  Mr.  Weston. 

"  Twenty- three  cents  a  bushel." 

"That's  awful  high!" 

"Entirely  too  high,"  said  Joe,  decisively. 
"That's  the  reason  low  cost  of  production  is 
given  a  better  rating  in  making  up  the  points 
this  year.     And  it  has  directed  attention  to  it." 

"Well,  if  you  make  two  hundred  bushels 
and  cut  it  to  twenty  cents  you've  got  forty 
dollars  to  spend." 

"Got  to  beat  twenty  cents,  pa — that's  too 
high  yet.  If  it  was  only  next  year  I  could 
make  it  for  less  than  five  cents  a  bushel,  with  all 
this  good,  permanent  stuff  I'm  putting  in  here." 

"It  don't  look  so  bad  to  me,  Joe.  You've 
spent   $6.60   already.     Me   an'    the   team   to- 

19  289 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

morrow  is  $3.00;  that  totals  $9.60.  You,  at 
8  cents  for  12  hours,  is  96  cents;  and  Link,  at 
the  rate  of  41  cents  a  day,  is  $10.97.  But  your 
land  is  ready  to  plant!" 

"There's  $2.25  for  that  kainite— $13.22  total." 

"Thus  far,  then,  on  a  two-hundred-bushel  es- 
timate, I've  spent  just  a  little  over  five  cents  a 
bushel,"  said  Joe,  beginning  to  revive. 

"Sure,  an'  the  rest  o'  the  work '11  be  cheap — 
your  own  labor  at  eight  cents  an  hour.  Suppose 
you  need  the  horse  an'  plow  two  full  days  at 
a  dollar  a  day;  you  ought  to  be  able  to  go  over 
that  acre  with  a  little  light  plow  in  half  a  day." 

"Easy!"  said  Joe,  confidently. 

"Well,  there's  two  workin's,  a  dollar;  an' 
two  goin's  over  with  a  cultivator,  another 
dollar.  Then  the  rest  is  just  a  rake  or  hoe 
after  rains  to  keep  the  top  soil  loose.  You'll 
have  to  do  that  by  hand;  the  corn  '11  be  so  high 
an'  thick  you  can't  use  the  horse." 

"That's  $15.22,  not  counting  my  labor.  Say, 
four  full  days  of  ten  hours  at  eight  cents  an 
hour — that  brings  the  total  up  to  $18.42  to  put 
the  corn  in  tassel  and  lay  it  by.  It's  doing 
pretty  well." 

"You  bet  it  is,"  assured  Mr.  Weston,  heartily. 

"Now,  about  the  chemical  stuff,"  began  Joe. 

"Well,  you  know  we've  been  savin'  all  the 
wood  ashes  since  last  fall  an'  mixin'  'em  in  the 

290 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

fertilizer  pile  as  we  went  along.  An'  there's 
that  barrel  o'  slack  lime  that  feller  rolled  off 
his  wagon  when  the  thunder-storm  hit  it  an* 
the  water  made  it  start  to  heavin'  an'  poppin' 
the  barrel/ '  Mr.  Weston  chuckled,  with  delight. 

"Seems  to  me  the  ground  is  pretty  well 
balanced,  then,  with  lime  and  potash  to  make 
the  grain,  countin'  the  kainite,"  said  Joe. 

"Yes,  but  we  can't  take  any  chances  now. 
Have  to  use  some  other  stuff.' ' 

"  Yes,  I'll  want  about  three  hundred  pounds  of 
good  complete  fertilizer.    That'll  cost  me  $3.75." 

"That  brings  it  up  to  $22.17.  You're  past 
the  ten-cent  mark,  now." 

"And  I  want  two  hundred  pounds  of  nitrate 
of  soda.  Got  to  have  that  to  push  it  along. 
That  will  cost  me  $4.25  more." 

"All  right;  that's  a  total  of  $26.42. 

"Anything  else  you  can  think  of,  son?" 

"I  guess  we  better  be  on  the  safe  side  and 
figure  two  more  days'  labor  at  eighty  cents — 
a  dollar-sixty." 

"At  the  outside  estimate,  then,  and  allowing 
for  everything  that  can  happen,  $28.02  is  the 
most  this  crop  will  cost  you.  On  a  two- 
hundred  -  bushel  basis  that's  fourteen  cents  a 
bushel!" 

"I'll  beat  two  hundred;  I  can  make  two 
hundred  and  thirty,  I  know." 

791 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Looks  to  me  like  youVe  got  'em  skinned  to 
death!"  exulted  Mr.  Weston. 

"'Beat  to  a  frazzle!'  as  the  President  used 
to  say.  There  can't  any  of  them  make  two 
hundred  bushels  that  cheap." 

"An',  son,  every  bushel  you  make  above  two 
hundred  pulls  down  the  average  cost — don't 
forget  that." 

"Gee,  if  it  was  only  next  year  I  could  make 
that  corn  for  less'n  four  cents  a  bushel!"  again 
mourned  Joe. 

"Well,  it  ain't  next  year,  an'  I  reckon  this  is 
the  very  best  you  can  do,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 
"Shows,  though,  how  it  pays  to  build  up  the 
soil  permanent.  Sort  o'  like  puttin'  money  in 
the  bank — keeps  bringin'  interest." 

"I  don't  see  how  the  cost  can  be  cut  another 
cent,"  mused  Joe,  still  intent  on  the  problem 
of  making  the  corn  at  the  lowest  possible  figure. 

"Me,  either,  but  I  believe  that  schedule '11 
win  out  for  you,"  urged  his  father. 

"I  want  to  get  all  that  stable  stuff  turned 
under  day  after  to-morrow,  let  it  stay  until 
about  this  time  next  month,  the  oats  and  manure 
rotting.     I'll  plant  about  March  twenty-fifth." 

"That's  purty  late,"  advised  Mr.  Weston. 
"We  generally  plant  earlier 'n  that." 

"Yes,  and  we've  had  some  hard  frosts  here 
in  early  April.    A  frost  is  mighty  bad  for  corn, 

293 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

I'm  not  taking  any  chances  of  having  my  crop 
stunted  and  blighted  with  cold.  I  ain't  after 
raising  early  roasting  ears." 

"Reckon  it  is  best  to  plant  late;  then  it'll 
go  along  without  any  hitch  at  all,"  agreed  his 
father. 

"Meanwhile,  I'll  be  getting  this  truck  patch 
planted  and  in  shape  to  make  something  with 
it.  We'll  break  that  up  soon's  we  get  through 
with  the  corn  acre.  I'll  have  to  get  a  sack  of 
good  vegetable  mixture  of  commercial  fertilizer 
to  put  under  the  beans.  That  land  won't  make 
much  without  it." 

The  next  day  was  one  of  intense  activity  for 
Joe,  his  father,  and  Link.  Wagon-load  after 
wagon-load  of  the  barn -yard  fertilizer  was  hauled 
and  scattered  over  the  precious  acre.  By  four 
o'clock  the  last  load  had  been  put  on,  and  Mr. 
Weston  had  the  team  hitched  to  a  harrow  and 
was  spreading  the  stuff  uniformly  over  the 
surface.  This  was  the  work  of  an  hour  and  a 
half,  and  by  that  time  it  was  near  dark.  Team 
and  human  beings  were  utterly  fagged  out,  and 
turned  in  for  rest. 

"By  jingo,  I  don't  know  when  I  ever  did 
such  a  day's  work.  I'm  about  used  up!" 
commented  Mr.  Weston,  as  he  settled  before  t1ie 
fire  waiting  for  supper  to  be  got  ready.  He 
promptly  fell  asleep. 

293 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Joe  sat  and  pondered  the  situation.  Already 
he  had  beaten  his  estimate  of  the  cost  of  pre- 
paring the  acre.  A  half  a  day's  work  by  his 
father  and  the  team  on  the  morrow  would  finish 
the  turning  under,  the  cross -breaking,  and  the 
harrowing.  There  was  nothing  further  to  do  ex- 
cept run  the  furrows,  sprinkle  some  commercial 
fertilizer  in  them,  and  drop  and  cover  the  corn. 

Tom  Ralston  had  wandered  over  that  after- 
noon, but  he  didn't  work.  His  previous  expe- 
rience helping  load  the  fertilizer  had  put  five 
tremendous  blisters  in  one  hand  and  four  in 
the  other.  He  could  hardly  straighten  up; 
there  seemed  a  kink  in  his  back.  His  arms 
ached,  his  legs  ached. 

"Like  farming ?"  called  Joe,  with  a  grin,  as 
he  spied  Tom  gingerly  approaching.  Joe  knew 
just  how  he  felt.     Tom  was  game,  though. 

"Yes,  but  I'll  like  it  better  when  it  quits 
hurting  so,"  Tom  answered. 

"I  told  you  not  to  go  at  it  so  hard  at  first," 
admonished  Joe. 

"I'll  take  your  advice  next  time.  I  can't 
do  anything  until  some  of  the  soreness  goes 
away;  I'm  not  used  to  work." 

"About  the  first  real  work  you  ever  did, 
ain't  it?"  inquired  Mr.  Ralston. 

"The  very  first,"  admitted  Tom. 

"Stick  ter  hit,  Mister  Tawm — hit  '11  make  er 
294 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

man  of  yo\  Dat's  de  way  I  got  my  start !" 
suggested  Link,  with  a  grin.  The  lot  of  them 
laughed. 

"I've  got  a  terrible  appetite  left,  though," 
confessed  Tom.  "It  hasn't  been  bent  or  hurt 
in  any  way  by  the  work." 

"Never  was  anything  wrong  with  it  on  the 
camping  trips,"  dryly  suggested  Joe.  "Didn't 
need  any  cultivating  at  all." 

"No,  but  I  mean  my  regular  appetite — not 
my  camp  one." 

"Oh,  you'll  feel  fine  soon's  you  get  over  that 
soreness,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

"I'll  come  over  to-morrow — when  I  can  get 
about  without  each  step  hurting,"  said  Tom, 
preparing  to  go. 

"Go  home  and  take  a  hot  bath  and  get  your 
mother  to  give  you  a  real  brisk  rub-down  with 
olive-oil  and  alcohol,  equal  parts.  Get  a  good 
night's  sleep,  and  most  of  the  soreness  will  be 
gone  by  to-morrow." 

"Thanks.  I'll  try  it!"  he  called,  as  he  passed 
through  the  gate. 

"That's  a  fine,  plucky  chap,"  observed  Mr. 
Weston. 

"He  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  Now  he's  all 
stove  up.  Maybe  he'll  think  I  know  a  bit  next 
time  I  talk  to  him." 

"I'll  just  bet  he  does!"  chuckled  Mr.  Weston. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE  days  passed  with  incredible  swiftness 
for  Joe  Weston.  Because  each  moment 
was  fully  occupied  he  hardly  had  time  to  think 
of  how  fast  the  summer  was  slipping  by. 

He  planted  the  corn  from  the  selected  ears, 
which  came  from  stalks  bearing  more  than  two 
ears  each  of  the  previous  crop,  and  got  a  splendid 
stand  from  the  start.  He  planted  five  grains 
in  a  hill,  in  order  to  insure  the  stand,  thinking 
that  it  was  better  to  do  this  than  to  run  the  risk 
of  having  to  replant,  and  then  have  stalks  in 
the  crop  which  would  not  mature  along  at  the 
same  time  with  the  rest  of  it. 

When  the  young  corn  was  about  a  foot  high 
he  pulled  out  the  two  weakest  stalks.  Then, 
two  weeks  later,  he  pulled  out  the  third  weakest. 
Consequently,  in  each  hill  he  had  two  sturdy, 
fine  plants,  the  best  of  the  lot  of  five.  The 
color  of  the  leaves  was  good,  and  the  way  it 
grew  and  made  stalk  was  a  wonder. 

The  beans  and  potatoes  were  coming  along 
nicely.  Early  shipments  of  snap-beans  brought 
a  good  price.     When  the  market  began  to  fall, 

296 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

owing  to  the  deluge  of  stuff  planted  by  less 
enterprising  growers,  Joe  concluded  the  margin 
of  profit  was  hardly  large  enough  to  justify 
further  time  devoted  to  shipping  truck.  He 
had  managed  to  clear  ninety  dollars  on  the 
beans.  The  final  crop  on  the  vines  was  pulled, 
Mrs.  Weston  canned  a  hundred  and  fifty  cans 
of  them,  and  the  vines  were  plowed  under. 
Corn  was  planted  on  the  ground  the  beans  had 
occupied. 

"We  got  to  make  all  the  corn  we  can,  Joe. 
There's  a  power  of  stock  here  to  carry  through 
the  winter,"  suggested  Mr.  Weston. 

"I  should  say  so;  thirty-eight  hogs  can  eat 
a  heap  of  corn  by  themselves,  to  say  nothing 
of  two  horses  and  the  other  stock  to  have  it 
fed  them  as  part  of  the  ration,"  agreed  Joe. 

He  and  his  father  had  pursued  the  same 
policy  about  hogs  as  they  had  about  calves, 
scouring  the  neighborhood  for  sows  with  broods 
of  young  pigs  which  the  improvident  farmers 
were  willing  to  part  with  cheap  for  ready  cash. 

The  Irish  potatoes  by  this  time  were  ready 
for  market  as  early  "new"  potatoes.  Forty 
bushels  were  dug  by  hand.  In  this  way  the 
largest  could  be  selected.  Whenever  a  hill 
showed  cracks  about  the  base  of  a  potato  plant 
it  was  a  sign  there  were  large  potatoes  in  it. 
With  a  hand-rake  the  hill  was  carefully  dug 

297 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

into,  the  biggest  potatoes  taken  out,  and  the 
dirt  thrown  back  on  the  smaller  ones,  ranging 
in  size  from  a  pea  to  a  walnut,  leaving  them  to 
mature  later.  The  forty  bushels  were  sold  at 
a  dollar  a  bushel. 

Corn  was  then  planted  between  the  potato 
rows.  By  the  time  the  corn-stalks  would  be 
large  enough  to  interfere  seriously  with  the 
amount  of  sunlight  the  potatoes  were  receiving 
the  latter  would  be  matured  and  then  plowed 
up  to  be  dried  and  stored  for  winter  use  or  sale. 
The  smaller  ones  would  be  sorted  and  stored 
for  seed  for  next  spring,  or  perhaps  a  fall  crop 
of  potatoes,  which  in  favorable  seasons  could 
frequently  be  grown  with  much  success. 

The  tomatoes  also  had  got  a  fine  start, 
and  were  hurried  along  with  liberal  doses  of 
fertilizer.  Mrs.  Weston  and  Annie  took  the 
job  of  cutting  off  the  suckers,  which  detracted 
from  the  strength  of  the  plants,  and  tying  the 
bearing  limbs  to  the  stakes.  Then,  when  gath- 
ering-time came,  she  and  Annie  had  become 
expert  in  detecting  the  peculiar  whitish  color  of 
the  fruit  which  meant  that  in  the  next  twenty- 
four  hours  it  would  begin  to  turn  faintly  pink. 
That  time  would  be  used  in  shipping  to  the 
distant  markets,  and  then  as  the  tomatoes  were 
opened  for  sale  they  would  be  just  right  for 
eating. 

298 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Link  assisted  in  gathering  and  packing;  Mrs. 
Weston  had  charge  of  the  grading.  A  hundred 
and  seventy  crates  brought  in  seventy  dollars. 
The  market  on  tomatoes  began  to  fall  about 
that  time,  and  there  was  not  enough  margin  to 
justify  further  shipments. 

"Well,  ma,  the  rest  of  them  out  there  are 
yours  now.  There's  a  right  good  chance  of 
them  yet.  Better  rig  up  your  canning  outfit 
here  in  the  yard  under  this  tree — it  will  be  cooler 
than  in  the  kitchen,"  suggested  Joe. 

Mrs.  Weston  had  prepared  a  thousand  cans 
and  labels,  and  had  everything  in  readiness. 
She  waited  a  few  days  for  the  tomatoes  to 
ripen  on  the  vines.  She  also  had  two  hundred 
tomato  plants  of  her  own  in  the  garden,  and 
had  them  to  supplement  the  acre  crop,  the 
best  of  which  had  been  shipped.  She  and  Annie 
got  busy  picking  tomatoes  as  they  ripened, 
carrying  them  to  the  back  porch  and  the  table 
under  the  tree.  There  they  were  selected  care- 
fully, the  large,  fine,  full-ripe  ones  placed  by 
themselves  and  the  smaller  ones  in  another  pile. 

"What's  the  idee?"  asked  Mr.  Weston,  indi- 
cating the  two  piles,  as  he  came  up  for  dinner. 
"My,  but  these  are  beauties!"  He  took  a 
great  big  full-ripe  one  and  ate  it  with  relish. 

"Idea's  simply  that  I'm  going  to  put  up  the 
very  best  big,  dead -ripe,   vine -ripened  toma- 

299 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

toes  in  the  cans  I'm  going  to  sell.  I  am  going 
to  make  a  reputation  for  having  tomatoes  a 
leetle  better 'n  them  that  come  out  of  the  stores. 
I'm  going  to  pack  the  cans  chuck  full  of  toma- 
toes, not  water.  Them  smaller  ones  I'm  goin' 
to  put  up  for  home  use,"  said  Mrs.  Weston. 

"That's  right;  folks  won't  expect  the  home- 
canned  stuff  to  measure  up  to  the  factory- 
canned,"  agreed  her  husband. 

"And  when  they  find  'em  away  ahead,  more 
tomatoes,  better  flavored,  vine-ripened,  no  cores 
or  specks  in  'em,  or  skins,  I'll  get  a  repeat  order 
and  contract  my  whole  output  next  year  in 
advance.  I'm  goin'  to  build  a  reputation  on 
my  tomatoes." 

"That's  business,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

"Well,  this  is  mine  and  Annie's  business — 
this  and  the  chickens  and  butter  and  milk  next 
year.  And  we'll  make  it  pay,  too;  you  just 
watch." 

"I  know  you  will!"  encouraged  Mr.  Weston. 
"I'm  just  so  glad  to  see  you  have  a  chance. 
You  take  what  you  make  and  use  it  like  you 
want,  wife." 

"No,  we're  like  that  book  Joe  was  reading 
aloud—" 

"The  Three  Mosquitoes!"  announced  Annie, 
proud  of  her  learning. 

"Three  Musketeers  —  not  mosquitoes,"  cor- 
300 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

rected  Mr.  Weston,  trying  to  keep  his  face 
straight. 

"Remember  their  motto,  'One  for  all,  and 
all  for  one'?  That's  us,  until  we  get  this  place 
paid  for  and  get  ahead."  Mrs.  Weston  spoke 
earnestly. 

"  We're  coming  fine,  too.  Le's  see:  tomatoes, 
seventy  dollars;  potatoes,  forty  dollars;  and 
beans,  ninety  dollars;  and  about  fifteen  dollars 
or  twenty  dollars  off  for  labor.  Well,  say  we've 
cleaned  up  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  dol- 
lars off  the  truck,  and  got  a  fine  corn  crop  com- 
ing, too.  That's  Joe's  contribution.  It  '11  more 
than  pay  for  every  one  o'  them  yearlin's  we 
bought  an'  the  pigs  too,  an'  go  a  long  ways 
torrards  feedin'  'em  this  winter,"  Mr.  Weston 
calculated,  with  satisfaction. 

"  We  are  getting  along  fine — ought  to  pay  out 
in  another  year,"  commented  Mrs.  Weston. 

"We  will;  soon's  I  get  them  beeves  on  the 
market  we'll  be  in  good  shape.  Ought  to  be 
able  to  sell  three  hundred  dollars'  worth  o' 
hogs  this  fall,  too." 

"What  you  reckon  the  hogs  you're  going  to 
sell  will  cost  you?"  inquired  Mrs.  Weston. 

"Oh,  I  guess — takin'  in  what  I  paid  for  'em 
an'  the  value  o'  the  corn  I'll  fatten  'em  on — 
say,  sixty-five  dollars." 

"Mv,  that's  a  good  profit!"  said  Mrs.  Weston, 
301 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"More  money  in  turnin'  corn  into  pork  than 
any  way  I  know  of  sellin'  it,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

That  afternoon  Mr.  Weston  went  away  with 
the  wagon  and  returned  late  with  a  complaining 
old  sow  and  seven  small  pigs  in  the  wagon -bed. 

"My  land,  pa,  where'd  you  get  'em?"  asked 
Joe. 

"Got  that  old  sow  an'  pigs  from  a  triflin' 
fellow  like  I  used  to  be.  He  sold  the  lot  for 
five  dollars,  an'  I  gave  him  a  check.  That  old 
sow's  wuth  the  five  dollars.  She's  a  good 
mother,  an'  ain't  but  three  years  old,  either. 
We'll  keep  her  as  a  brood -sow.  Two -thirds 
Poland  China." 

"Great  Scott,  we've  got  to  make  a  lot  of 
corn  to  carry  all  this  stock  through  the  winter! 
Well,  I  guess  I  better  put  that  tomato  acre  in 
corn,  too!"  said  Joe. 

The  next  day  he  ran  a  furrow  between  each 
of  the  tomato  rows  each  way  and  planted  a 
dry-weather  corn  in  the  corner  checks.  It  was 
getting  late  for  corn-planting.  In  the  corn  crop 
on  the  bean  acre  he  sowed  cow-pease,  to  furnish 
hay  from  the  vines,  and  the  roots  to  gather 
nitrogen.  The  pease  also  were  valuable,  but  no 
great  amount  of  them  would  ripen  before  the 
corn  would  be  matured  and  gathered.  But 
each  corn  -  stalk  with  its  fodder  and  the  pea- 
vines  on  it,  when  run  through  the  shredder  and 

302 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

the  mass  stored  away  in  the  loft  of  the  barn, 
would  go  far  toward  settling  the  question  of 
winter  provender. 

A  turning-plow  was  run  under  each  of  the 
Irish-potato  rows.  Sixty-eight  bushels  of  very 
fair  potatoes  were  gathered,  and  two  barrels  of 
small  ones  ranging  from  the  size  of  a  small 
marble  to  a  walnut  were  saved  for  seed.  The 
potatoes  were  placed  under  a  shed  to  dry  out 
before  being  banked  in  dry  sand  and  to  keep 
until  needed  or  for  sale  in  winter,  when  the  price 
advanced,  or  for  home  use. 

Where  the  potatoes  were  taken  out,  cow- 
pease  were  sowed  thickly  and  raked  in.  The 
great  value  of  these  legumes  as  soil  renovators 
was  thoroughly  appreciated  by  Joe  Weston. 
Besides,  the  hay  from  the  dried  vines  was  a 
splendid,  well-balanced  ration,  and  the  pease 
that  dropped  to  the  ground  would  be  eagerly 
eaten  by  the  pigs  when  they  were  turned  in 
for  a  few  days  foraging  for  overlooked  potatoes 
and  such  other  stuff  as  they  might  be  able  to 
root  up  in  the  way  of  worms  and  bugs  as  well 
as  the  sweet  stubble  of  corn. 

The  tomato  vines  had  ceased  to  bear.  The 
stakes  were  pulled  up  and  piled  in  a  corner 
neatly  for  use  next  year.  The  vines  themselves 
were  uprooted  and  piled  in  another  corner  to 
rot,  to  be  turned  under  as  a  bit  of  help  to  the 

303 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

programme  of  adding  decaying  vegetable  mat- 
ter, or  humus,  to  the  land. 

In  all  these  activities  Joe  had  valuable  help 
from  Tom  Ralston.  Tom  was  deeply  interested 
in  the  farming  work;  he  asked  questions  innu- 
merable about  everything,  and  was  anxious  to 
learn.  He  was  growing  brown  and  strong  and 
hearty,  a  great  change  from  the  spindling,  deli- 
cate city  boy  he  was  when  he  first  accosted  Joe 
Weston  in  the  road.  He  was  ready  and  willing 
to  do  his  share  of  the  work,  and  always  endeav- 
ored to  understand  the  "why"  of  everything. 

He  and  Joe  were  idly  looking  at  the  prize 
corn  acre  one  afternoon.  So  were  several  farm- 
ers who  had  come  in  from  the  road,  attracted 
by  the  truly  inspiring  sight  the  almost  solid 
square  of  green  vegetation  presented. 

"What  are  those  suckers  for,  Joe?"  asked 
Tom,  pointing  to  the  numerous  ones  springing 
out  from  the  roots  of  the  prize  corn. 

"Well,"  smiled  Joe,  "that  hasn't  been  set- 
tled yet.  Nobody  knows,  exactly.  I  had  quite 
an  argument  with  the  President  of  the  United 
States  on  that  subject,  when  I  went  to  Wash- 
ington, and  came  out  ahead  on  it." 

"The  dickens  you  did!"  inquired  a  young 
countryman  who  was  one  of  the  observers. 
"You  didn't  have  the  nerve  to  argify  with  the 
President?" 

304 


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l^2jj-^|w^^ 

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W*9\ ' 

ess 

2  "4^— " 

JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Well,  he  started  it,"  observed  Joe,  in  a 
matter-of-fact  tone.  "I  had  to  tell  him  the 
truth  as  I  saw  it.  I  was  respectful,  of  course, 
but  all  the  same  I  was  right,  and  proved  it." 

"Well,  what  about  the  suckers?"  insisted 
Tom  Ralston. 

"The  argument  the  President  and  I  had  was 
whether  it  pays  to  pull  'em  off.  I  proved  that 
it  didn't  matter." 

"I  allers  thought  they  took  the  strength  out 
o'  the  main  stalk,"  said  the  young  fellow. 

"I  don't  believe  it.  I  think  it  is  either  one 
of  two  things  that  makes  corn  sucker:  it  is 
either  trying  to  change  its  form  from  the  one 
stalk  and  'stool'  several  stalks  from  one  root — " 

"That  sounds  sorter  reasonable,"  suggested 
one  of  the  farmers,  who  was  listening. 

"Or  else  it  is  a  precaution  the  stalk — the 
main  stalk — is  taking  in  storing  up  an  excess 
amount  of  moisture  or  food  in  those  suckers. 
Then  in  an  excessive  dry  spell  the  sap  and  moist- 
ure stored  in  the  sucker  will  be  drained  by  the 
main  stalk." 

"That  sounds  more  reasonable  than  t'other," 
said  the  eldest  countryman.  "An'  to  think,  I 
been  raisin'  corn  thirty-five  years  an'  never 
thought  o'  nothin'  like  that." 

"But  why  should  the  stalks  try  to  'stool'  to 
put  up  other  stalks  from  the  roots?"  persisted 

20  305 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Tom.  "I  want  to  get  to  the  very  bottom  of 
this." 

"There  are  some  sure-enough  scientists  that 
haven't  been  able  to  do  that  yet,  Tom,"  answered 
Joe.  "I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  I  have  an 
idea — and  it's  only  my  idea." 

"  What  is  it,  Joe?"  asked  another  countryman, 
who  had  hitherto  remained  silent.  "I've  won- 
dered about  that  myself." 

"Have  you  ever  noticed  where  the  suckers 
are  the  most  numerous?"  inquired  Joe. 

All  of  them  shook  their  heads  in  negation. 

"Well,  I  have.  They  come  mostly  on  stalks 
that  are  on  rich  ground,  and  the  richer  the 
ground,  the  ranker  the  growth  and  the  more 
suckers,  it  seems  to  me.  That  looks  like  the 
root  system  is  stronger  than  the  main  plant 
needs,  and  it  is  the  economy  of  nature  trying 
to  make  use  of  the  excess  of  food." 

"By  George,  b'lieve  you're  right!"  said  the 
young  countryman. 

"Come  to  think  of  it,  I've  seen  some  of  them 
suckers  try  to  form  little  nubbins  on  the  end," 
added  the  second  man. 

"I've  seen  that,  too.  Now,  whether  that  is 
the  reason  or  whether  the  main  stalk  is  using 
these  suckers  as  reservoirs  for  hard  times,  extra 
dry  weather,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  I  can't 
say.     But  if  they  could  be  made  into  stalks  that 

306 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

will  bear  ears,  it  would  be  a  big  help,  wouldn't 
it,  even  if  the  ears  were  only  nubbins ?" 

"You  betcher  life!"  enthusiastically  assented 
the  younger  of  the  three  countrymen. 

"  That's  one  of  the  problems  they  are  working 
on  at  the  agricultural  schools,  where  I  want 
to  go  if  I  win  out  on  this  contest,"  said  Joe. 
"They  are  solving  these  questions  that  don't 
seem  so  very  important  to  us — little  things  like 
this;  but  those  experts  go  right  to  the  bottom 
of  them  and  then  work  them  out  and  turn  them 
to  some  account." 

"I  wish  ter  goodness  I  could  'a*  gone  ter  one 
o'  them  schools  an'  learnt  somethin',"  said  the 
younger  of  the  countrymen  who  had  been 
listening,  but  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  prize 
acre.  "I  ain't  never  thought  much  of  it  until 
this  Boys'  Corn  Club  business  come  along. 
When  boys  from  ten  to  fourteen  years  old  can 
make  from  one  to  two  hundred  bushels  an  acre, 
an'  us  other  fellers  wabble  along  with  twenty, 
it's  time  for  the  rest  of  us  to  wake  up." 

"It's  concentratin',"  observed  the  second 
countryman. 

"Sure!"  said  the  third  ruralite.  "Look  at 
Joe's  fine  acre  here.  He'll  make  two  hundred 
bushels  on  it.  We've  been  f oolin'  aroun'  makin ' , 
say,  twenty,  an'  on  extry  good  land  thirty, 
bushels  an  acre,  an'  thinkin'  we've  been  doin' 

3°7 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

tolerable  well.  It  ain't  never  the  trouble  to 
work  one  acre  thorough  as  it  is  to  scratch  over 
ten  acres  like  we  been  doin'." 

"Danged  if  I  ain't  goin'  to  try  it.  Next 
time  there's  a  Farmers'  Institute  around  I'm 
goin'.  Hear  me,  folks?  And'  I'm  gettin'  a 
patch  of  five  acres  ready  right  now  to  raise  a 
hundred  bushels  an  acre  on  next  year.  I've 
got  a  manure-pile  higher'n  my  head  now.  By 
fall  when  I  plow  it  under  an'  plant  oats  on 
top  of  it  that  pile  '11  give  them  five  acres  a 
powerful  help  of  a  start." 

"Talkin'  about  improvements,  what  would 
you  fellows  think  of  plowing  without  a  horse 
or  a  mule?"  inquired  Joe. 

"One  of  these  here  tractor-engines  an'  gang- 
plows?"  said  the  young  countryman,  who  had 
been  picking  up  information. 

"No,  those  are  for  big  farmers  on  level  land," 
answered  Joe.  "I  mean  just  to  take  out  your 
plow,  touch  a  match  to  it,  and  go  to  plow- 
ing?" 

"It  can't  be  did,"  said  the  older  man,  with 
an  air  of  finality.  "That's  all  foolishness. 
That  day  '11  never  come." 

"You're  wrong  again;  it  has  already  come," 
said  Joe.  There  is  now  a  plow  on  the  principle 
of  the  motor-cycle — " 

M  What's  that  about  a  motor-cycle?"  inquired 
308 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Mr.  Weston,  who  had  just  come  up  and  joined 
in  the  conversation. 

"That's  a  fact.  I  saw  the  account  of  it 
myself,"  said  Tom.  "Father  subscribed  for  a 
fine  agricultural  paper  for  me,  and  it  told  all 
about  it.  Has  an  eight-horse-power  engine  at- 
tached to  it,  and  all  the  man  has  to  do  is  to 
guide  it  and  stand  between  the  handles.  It 
does  the  plowing.  It  is  kind  of  clumsy  yet,  but 
it  won't  be  five  years  until  everybody  has  'em." 

"Well,  I  do  know!"  wondered  the  oldest  man. 

"Ump!"  remarked  Link,  who  had  joined  the 
group.  "Dem  Yankeys  is  sure  great  folks; 
come  down  hyar  fust  en  freed  de  nigger,  now  dey 
done  come  en  freed  de  mewl!"  A  roar  of  laugh- 
ter greeted  him. 

"Really,  it  means  a  heap,"  said  Joe.  "Just 
think  how  a  farmer  has  to  work  to  produce  feed 
for  his  power  on  the  farm.  Just  think  how 
much  corn  and  stuff  these  old  hay -burners  — 
mules  and  horses — use!  If  the  farmer  did  not 
have  to  feed  horses  and  mules  he  could  throw 
all  that  corn  and  oats  and  energy  into  hogs  or 
beef  cattle.  It  will  just  increase  the  earning 
capacity  of  the  farmer  about  a  third." 

"What  you  goin'  to  do  about  goin'  to  town 
an'  haulin'?"  queried  the  old  farmer,  in  triumph. 
He  still  loved  the  mule. 

"Automobiles!"  responded  Joe.  "Prices  of 
309 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

autos  are  bound  to  go  lower;  they  are  getting 
in  reach  of  poorer  folks.  Just  hitch  the  wagon- 
tongue  on  behind  and  use  the  auto  to  pull  the 
load." 

"  Can't  do  nothin'  much  with  an  auto  on 
these  roads,"  suggested  the  younger  man.  "Do 
very  well  in  summer,  but  winter — oh,  my!" 

" That's  another  thing;  farmers  with  autos 
and  good  farm  machinery  will  wake  up  and  have 
good  roads,"  said  Mr.  Weston.  "Then  folks 
can  get  around  and  visit  more.  If  all  you  had 
to  do  was  to  get  in  your  auto  and  take  the  folks 
out  ridin'  you'd  be  a  heap  more  sociable,  and 
country'd  be  a  better  place  to  live  in." 

"How  we  goin'  to  get  the  good  roads?"  asked 
the  young  countryman. 

"It's  pretty  easy,"  said  Mr.  Weston.  "You 
notice  the  road  in  front  of  this  place?" 

"Best  road  for  ten  miles,"  said  one  of  the 
visitors. 

"Well,  a  log  a  foot  in  diameter,  split  in  half 
and  braced  so  as  to  make  a  drag  and  hauled 
over  that  stretch  of  road  about  every  two  weeks 
rounds  the  dirt  to  the  center  so  it  sheds  water. 
The  travel  packs  it  and  keeps  packing  it.  That's 
the  easiest  and  cheapest  way  to  keep  the  road 
up.  Government  will  send  you  a  pamphlet  free 
about  how  to  make  the  split-log  drag  and  how 
to  use  it." 

310 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

14  Looks  to  me,  if  every  feller' d  do  that  the 
roads  would  be  good  every  where,"  said  the 
younger  of  the  visitors. 

"They  would,  and  a  man  ought  to  be  ashamed 
to  have  a  bad  road  in  front  of  his  place — just 
as  much  ashamed  as  to  have  a  run-down,  dirty 
place,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

"I  think  I'll  make  me  one  of  them  things 
and  use  it  in  front  of  my  place,"  said  the  eldest 
man. 

"Me,  too!"  chimed  the  other  visitor. 

"Come  show  us  that  one  you  got  made;  I 
don't  want  to  lose  time  writin'  for  them  instruc- 
tions from  Washington,"  asked  the  youngest 
man. 

"All  right;  glad  to!"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

As  the  party  moved  toward  the  shed  where  the 
simple  but  effective  "split-log  drag"  reposed 
under  the  shed  Mr.  Weston  chuckled. 

"When  I  come  up  there  where  you  fellers 
were  talkin'  an'  heard  you  say  somethin'  about 
motor-cycles,"  he  said,  "it  reminded  me  of  a 
story  they  tell  on  Hen  Tucker.  He  never  had 
seen  one  of  the  things.  He'd  been  to  town  an' 
filled  up  on  some  o'  that  mean  blind -tiger 
booze,  an'  was  a-wabblin'  along  the  road  torrards 
home.     It  was  jest  about  sundown. 

"He  zigzagged  out  in  the  road  in  front  of 
an  automobile,  an'  one  corner  of  it  hit  him, 

3" 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

spun  him  aroun'  about  six  times,  an'  wallowed 
him  in  the  dust,  but  the  auto  kept  goin\  Just 
as  he  was  gettin'  up,  here  come  a  motor-cycle 
right  up  behind.  Zip!  It  slammed  him  aroun' 
again  an'  went  fly  in'  up  the  road — pop — pop — 
pop — pop!  Hen  riz  up  an'  looked  at  the  cloud 
o'  dust  an'  shook  his  head. 

"'Danged  ef  I  ever  knowed  them  ortymo- 
biles  had  young  'uns  that  follered  them  that 
clost;  an'  to  think  I  been  run  over  by  er  orty 
en  its  calf!'  sezze." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

SEASONABLE  showers  fell  on  the  corn  crop. 
Joe  kept  the  soil  stirred  lightly  with  a  hand- 
rake  so  as  to  conserve  the  moisture,  and  applied 
two  hundred  pounds  of  nitrate  of  soda  when 
the  stalks  were  two-thirds  grown. 

That  gave  the  crop  a  strong  impetus,  and 
tassels  began  to  show  above  the  dark -green 
leaves,  some  of  which  were  almost  five  inches 
across.  A  good  soaking  rain  fell,  followed  by 
a  cloudy  day  and  a  day's  drizzle.  That  night 
it  showered  intermittently,  and  Joe  and  his 
father  went  down  about  dusk  between  showers. 
His  father  had  told  him  he  heard  something 
rustling  about  in  the  corn.  The  idea  of  a  cow 
or  a  horse  in  there  working  havoc  sent  a  cold 
chill  down  Joe's  back. 

The  two  stopped  at  the  fence  and  listened  in 
the  dead  stillness. 

There  was  a  cautious  rustling,  faint  but 
plain.  It  was  a  sort  of  whispered  rustle,  that 
a  person  could  sense  more  than  he  could  hear. 

"Hear  that!  That's  it;  some  o'  them  pesky 
calves  in  there!"  excitedly  urged  Mr.  Weston, 

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JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

The  sibilant  rustle  was  heard  again.  In  fact, 
it  never  seemed  to  stop.  Occasionally  there 
was  a  louder  noise.     Joe  laughed. 

"  That's  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  corn  grow!" 
he  said. 

"  Heard  it  grow?  That's  the  first  I  ever  heard 
of  that  sort  of  foolishness,"  snorted  his  father. 

"That's  what  I  said — heard  it  grow.  That 
noise  is  just  the  unfolding  of  the  leaves.  The 
rain  is  furnishing  plenty  of  moisture,  and  the 
sap  is  rushing  up,  and  the  leaves  are  sim- 
ply opening  fast  —  tassels  coming  out,  and  all 
that." 

"I'll  believe  mighty  near  anything  my  son 
says  about  corn,  but  blame  my  cats  if  I  go  that 
far  as  to  say  I  heard  corn  grow!"  said  Mr. 
Weston,  with  much  distrust  in  his  tone. 

"All  right,  then.  What  makes  that  rustling 
in  there?"  asked  Joe. 

"Pesky  calf — or — or  jay-birds  roostin'  in  it, 
or — or  wind."     He  ran  out  of  conjectures. 

"You  know  it  ain't  possible  for  a  calf  to  be  in 
there,  because  we  been  all  round  the  fence;  it's 
tight,  and  the  gate  is  locked.  Now,  cut  out 
the  calf,"  suggested  Joe. 

"Well,  how  about  jay-birds,  or  wind,  or 
varmints?"  asked  Mr.  Weston,  hopefully.  He 
was  determined  that  it  should  not  be  unfolding 
corn  leaves  that  he  heard. 

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JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  jay -birds  roosting  in 
corn — honest,  now?"  insisted  Joe. 

"Well,  don't  know's  I  ever  did." 

"All  right;  jay-birds  and  calves  are  out  of 
the  question.  Do  you  feel  any  breeze  to  rustle 
the  corn?" 

"  N-no— b'lieve  not,"  said  Mr.  Weston.  He 
was  being  hemmed  in  and  knew  it.  There 
never  was  a  calmer  night — not  a  breath  of  air 
stirring. 

"Now  the  wind  is  out  of  the  question,  too. 
Listen!     Hear  that?"     They  listened  again. 

"Sounds  like  the  whisperin,  in  that  big  sea- 
shell  when  you  hold  it  to  your  ear,"  said  Mr. 
Weston. 

"Ain't  a  thing  in  the  world  except  the  corn 
growing — leaves  unfolding  and  rubbing  against 
one  another  as  they  open — that  makes  that 
noise.  So  you  can  say  that  you've  heard  corn 
grow,  even  if  you  never  saw  it  grow,"  suggested 
his  son. 

"Well,  live  an'  learn!"  his  father  responded. 

"Hope  to  goodness  we  won't  have  a  rain  for 
about  two  or  three  weeks,"  said  Joe.  "That 
corn  is  fine,  and  if  we  have  a  nice,  quiet,  dry 
spell  and  no  big  wind,  the  pollen  will  fall  plentiful 
from  the  tassels  to  the  silk  and  the  ears  will  be 
seeded  plumb  to  the  end,  good  fertile  grains. 
Wet  weather  just  at  tasseling-time  is  bad  for 

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JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

corn.     It  is  always  better  if  the  weather  is  dry 
and  still." 

"I've  heard  old  farmers  say  that,  but  they 
didn't  know  the  reason,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

"If  there's  much  wet  weather  or  wind  about 
tasseling-time  the  pollen  from  the  tassels  don't 
fall  on  the  silk  evenly.  That  is  necessary  to 
make  a  perfect  grain.  There's  a  strand  of  silk 
for  each  grain.  Unless  that  strand  gets  pollen 
on  it,  no  grain.  Rain  and  wind  wash  the  pollen 
away  before  it  gets  on  all  the  silk." 

"That  makes  nubby  corn?"  inquired  his 
father.     Joe  nodded. 

If  the  weather  had  been  ordered  especially 
for  the  corn  it  could  not  have  been  any  finer. 
It  was  exactly  three  weeks  until  a  gentle,  slow 
rain  fell  one  night. 

"My  crop's  made,  it's  made!"  rejoiced  Joe, 
when  he  arose  the  next  morning.  "Grain's  all 
formed ;  now  plenty  of  moisture  to  fill  'em  out — 
crop's  made,  I  tell  you,  and  it's  going  to  be  a 
whale  of  a  crop,  believe  me!" 

"Looks  like  the  season  come  just  right," 
observed  his  mother. 

"Couldn't  be  better,"  admitted  Joe. 
.    His  effort  at  seed-selection  was  bearing  fruit. 
He  had  saved  the  seed  from  the  stalks  with 
the  most  ears  on  them;  and  in  the  crop  coming 
on  there  was  at  least  a  third  of  the  crop  with 

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JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

three  perfectly  developed  ears  on  each  stalk; 
probably  fifty  stalks  with  four  well-developed 
ears,  and  a  half-dozen  which  showed  four  good 
ears  and  a  rudimentary  ear  which  could  in 
time  be  developed  into  a  perfect  ear. 

Joe  went  through  and  marked  all  the  five- 
eared  stalks  with  a  red-calico  string,  the  four- 
eared  ones  with  a  blue  strip,  and  the  three-eared 
ones  with  a  white  piece  of  cloth. 

"I'm  going  to  gather  it  all  separately/ '  he 
explained  to  his  father.  "  These  few  stalks 
showing  the  five-ear  tendency  I  am  going  to 
plant  off  by  themselves  next  year  and  develop 
them  up;  same  way  with  the  four  ears.  May 
plant  the  two  together — I'm  not  certain  now, 
but  I  want  to  breed  that  corn  up  to  five  good 
ears  to  the  stalk." 

"What  about  this  here  three-ear  corn?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Weston. 

"First  I  want  to  get  enough  of  it  for  you  to 
plant  here  on  the  place.  Then  the  rest  of  it  I 
will  sell  for  seed." 

"What  about  the  balance,  Joe?" 

"Feed  the  hogs  with  it." 

"Why,  Joe,"  protested  Tom  Ralston,  "you 
could  sell  any  of  this  corn  for  seed-corn  at  a 
fancy  price,  just  because  it  came  off  this  acre. 
You're  foolish  not  to." 

"Well,  maybe  I'll  sort  out  the  best  ears  from 
317 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

the  two-ear  corn  and  sell  it  at  a  slight  advance 
for  the  trouble  in  sorting  it  out,  but  I  won't 
take  any  fancy  price  for  it,  because  it  ain't 
fancy  corn.  And  I  ain't  particular  anxious  to 
sell  it.  It's  worth  as  much  to  us  for  feed  as  the 
money  is." 

"I  think  you' ought  to  be  willing  to  sell  it 
for  seed-corn,  Joe,"  said  his  father.  "It's  fine, 
strong  corn,  better  than  any  of  this  around 
here.  It's  bound  to  give  good  results,  an'  you'll 
help  the  farmers  that  want  to  get  a  good  corn 
to  plant." 

"Oh,  well,  looking  at  it  that  way  I  reckon 
it's  sort  of  my  duty  to  let  it  go.  But  just  wait 
until  I  get  me  a  five-ear  corn  fixed;  I'll  get  five 
and  six  dollars  a  bushel  for  it  right  along." 

"How  you  going  to  carry  on  corn-breeding 
if  you  are  off  at  school?"  inquired  Tom  Ralston. 

"Better  get  the  trip  to  the  school  first;  but 
if  I  do  go  up  there  pa  can  do  all  that's  needful 
next  year.  Plant  on  part  of  this  acre  the  four- 
ear  and  five-ear  corn;  I'll  pick  the  two  most 
perfect  ears  to  get  seed  from.  Then  when  the 
ears  are  matured,  do  as  I  have  done;  pick  out 
the  best  and  strongest  stalks  with  the  most 
ears  on  'em  and  mark  'em.  Then  the  next 
year  I'll  carry  it  on  myself." 

"What  about  the  rest  of  that  four-ear  corn?" 
inquired  Mr.  Weston. 

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JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Sell  it  at  four  dollars  a  bushel  for  seed 
after  you  have  got  all  you  want.  Same  way 
with  the  three-ear;  sell  that  at  three  dollars  a 
bushel.,, 

"This  patch  in  here  ought  to  make  a  good 
crop  of  corn  next  year,"  reflected  Mr.  Weston. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  don't  plant  a  stalk  of 
corn  in  here  except  that  stuff  we  are  trying  to 
breed  up.  Don't  want  any  other  corn  any 
closer  than  that  field  below  the  hill.  The 
pollen  of*  that  low-grade  corn  will  get  mixed 
with  this  fine  corn  and  set  us  back  no  telling 
how  far." 

"Oh,  all  right,  then.  But  what  shall  we 
plant  here?" 

"Break  it  early, and  sow  cow-pease  broadcast, 
thick  as  you  can.  Mix  some  corn  in  with  'em, 
say  half  and  half.  When  the  corn  gets  almost 
to  tasseling  stage  mow  vines  and  all  off  for  hay. 
Break  it  and  turn  everything  under  and  drill 
corn  in  thick.  Let  it  get  high  as  your  head 
and  cut  that,  too.  We'll  need  lots  of  provender. 
Guess  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  plant  cow-pease 
along  with  the  second  crop,  too." 

"I  was  thinkin'  of  letting  the  oats  mature 
next  spring;  we'll  be  needin'  'em,"  said  his 
father. 

"Well,  that's  all  right;  oat -"stubble  turned 
under  is  a  help,  and  you  can  get  a  good  crop 

319 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

of  pea-vine  hay  and  young  corn-fodder  off  here 
after  the  oats.  I  expect  that  would  be  the 
best  plan." 

"I'll  do  that,  then." 

"Won't  try  truck  next  spring?"  asked  Tom. 

"No,  we'll  be  short-handed,  and  it  will  be 
all  Link  an'  me  can  do  to  keep  the  stock  growin' 
fast  an'  get  regular  crops  and  such.  I'll  wait 
until  Joe  gets  back." 

"Say,  I've  been  doing  some  studying,  too," 
said  Tom  Ralston,  as  the  three  walked  back 
toward  the  house  from  the  corn-plot.  "Father 
subscribed  to  a  good  farm  paper  for  me,  and  I've 
been  reading  it,  and  I  found  out  about  those 
oak  leaves  you've  been  putting  on  the  land. 
Here's  what  it  says."  He  pulled  a  clipping 
from  his  pocket. 

"Le's  see,"  said  Joe,  taking  the  bit  of  paper 
and  reading  it  aloud: 

" '  When  leaves  are  put  on  the  land  their  chief 
value  is  from  the  humus  they  supply,  and  not 
from  the  plant  -  food  they  contain.  One  ton 
of  oak  leaves,  according  to  Van  Slyke,  contains 
fifteen  pounds  of  nitrogen,  seven  pounds  of 
phosphoric  acid,  and  three  pounds  of  potash. 
At  current  prices  for  plant -foods  those  in  a  ton 
of  oak  leaves  are  worth  about  three-fifty.' " 

"Well,  I'm  glad  to  know  about  it,"  said  Mr. 
Weston. 

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JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Me,  too,"  said  Joe.  "I  knew  in  a  general 
way  that  leaves  had  some  fertilizing  value — 
not  very  much;  but  my  idea  was  mainly  to 
get  humus — decaying  vegetable  matter — in  the 
land.  I  knew  it  was  no  account  without  it, 
so  I  just  went  to  piling  leaves  on." 

"Even  at  three-fifty  a  ton  fertilizing  value," 
said  Tom  Ralston,  "it  will  not  cost  that  to  put 
the  leaves  on ;  and  there's  the  additional  benefit 
to  the  land  in  humus,  which  is  more  than  that 
sum." 

"Anybody  would  know  his  daddy  was  a 
manufacturer,  the  way  he  figgers!"  said  Mr. 
Weston,  admiringly. 

"It's  worth  knowing,"  agreed  Joe.  "This 
winter  I  want  pa  and  Link  to  haul  all  the  leaves 
they  can  and  bed  the  cattle  in  them.  The  dry 
leaves  will  absorb  the  urine  salts  and  ammonia 
and  droppings.  Then  put  on  the  ground  and 
plowed  under,  there  is  no  better  manure  to  be 
had  anywhere." 

"I  will  see  that  that  is  done,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 
"Link  has  got  to  put  in  all  his  spare  time  on 
leaves.  He's  got  a  younger  brother  I  think  I'll 
hire  just  as  soon  as  the  leaves  are  off  the  trees. 
I'm  going  to  treat  that  patch  o'  poor  land  just 
beyond  yours,  Joe.  It's  so  poor  it  won't  hardly 
grow  bitter-weed." 

"Well,  you  know  what  to  do." 

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JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Sure  I  do,  and  we'll  do  it.' ' 

"Think  I'll  put  those  two  colored  boys  over 
home  to  work  on  the  leaves,  too,"  said  Tom 
Ralston.  "Major  Dean  claimed  he  had  to 
buy  so  much  commercial  fertilizer  until  there 
wasn't  any  more  money  in  farming.  He's  just 
farmed  that  place  so  long,  without  giving  the 
soil  anything  back,  that  it's  wearing  out." 

"The  major  sure  was  a  big  believer  in  com- 
mercial fertilizer,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  see  if  we  can't  farm 
with  less  of  it  when  I  have  charge,  and  a  good 
way  is  to  get  a  year's  start  now.  I'll  have  a 
shed  built  and  give  orders  that  every  speck  of 
manure  about  that  lot  goes  tinder  that  shed  to 
protect  it  from  the  weather.  Then  this  fall 
it  is  to  be  plowed  under,  and  keep  that  pro- 
gramme up." 

"It  will  win,"  said  Joe. 

"Look  here,  Joe,"  said  Tom.  "If  you  go 
off  to  that  agricultural  school  I'm  afraid  I'll 
get  all  mixed  up  here.  I'm  just  beginning  to 
learn  something." 

"Why  don't  you  go  if  I  do?"  suggested  Joe. 
"Your  father  is  able  to  stand  the  expense." 

"I  never  thought  of  it;  you'll  help  me  get 
through  with  things  that  are  too  deep  for  me 
yet?" 

"Sure  I  will!"  assured  Joe. 
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JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"I'll  write  father  this  very  night!"  enthusias- 
tically said  Tom  Ralston. 

"Well,  where  do  I  come  in?"  inquired  Mr. 
Weston. 

"Oh,  I'll  write  you  twice  a  week  of  what  I 
learn  up  there,  and  send  you  all  the  bulletins 
that  are  of  any  value  to  us  down  here.  I  can 
help  a  heap  that  way.  Now  you  can  read  all 
right  and  have  got  that  dictionary  to  look  up 
any  words  that  bother  you,  why  you  can  keep 
up  with  us  right  along." 

"I  promise  I'll  study  faithful,"  said  Mr. 
Weston.  "It's  goin'  to  be  powerful  lonesome 
here  for  me — nobody  to  talk  to  about  crops  an' 
the  cattle  at  night." 

"Good  chance  for  you  to  get  on  the  inside  of 
this  canning  business  of  ma's  and  lay  plans 
for  helping  her  next  summer.  You  ain't  going 
to  have  time  to  worry  about  being  lonesome  in." 

"N-no,  I  reckon  not,"  mused  Mr.  Weston. 
"In  fact,  I  sorter  feel  scared  at  the  outlook; 
there's  so  blame  much  to  do,  with  all  the  stock 
an'  pigs,  an'  keeping  the  crops  goin',  an'  you've 
done  a  man's  share  all  the  time." 

"Well,  cutting  out  the  truck  and  the  prize 
corn  crop  next  year  will  cut  down  work.  Oh, 
you'll  get  through  all  right." 

"Yes,  I  just  got  ter,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 
"But,  Joe,  you  don't  seem  like  my  little  boy; 

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JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

you  an'  me  has  got  to  be  plumb  pardners  in 
every  way.  It  was  through  you  I  got  out  o' 
that  rut  I  was  in  an*  was  keepin'  you  all  in; 
an'  you've  just  gone  right  ahead,  an'  I've  been 
keepin'  up  as  best  I  could,  bein'  sort  o'  slow- 
witted  an*  shy  on  education;  but  I  shore  will 
miss  you,  boy."  His  eyes  were  suspiciously 
moist. 

"I'll  miss  you,  too,  daddy,  miss  you  like  fury. 
And  out  of  all  those  best  farmers  in  the  world 
I'll  see  up  there  at  that  school  I  wouldn't 
trade  one  of  'em  for  my  old  dad — hear  that?" 

Mr.  Weston  brightened  and  patted  his  son 
on  the  back. 

"I  know  it's  goin'  to  be  a  big  help  when  you 
get  back,  an'  we'll  learn  a  whole  lot  more,  but 
all  the  same" — he  shook  his  head,  doggedly — 
"it's  goin'  to  be  powerful  lonesome  an'  hard  to 
stand." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  summer  flew  by  with  incredible  swift- 
ness. There  came,  gradually,  gently,  a 
soft  haze  in  the  atmosphere;  the  distant  hills 
were  enshrouded  in  purple.  In  the  woods  there 
were  a  few  first  yellow  leaves  on  the  gum  trees ; 
there  was  crimson  on  the  sumach  bushes  along 
the  fence-rows  and  a  glint  of  golden-rod  in  the 
fields  and  thickets. 

The  weather  was  dry,  and  a  faint  touch  of 
coolness  in  the  evenings  and  the  whispering 
rustle  of  dying  grasses  stirred  by  the  breeze 
gave  hints  of  the  fast  approaching  fall.  In  the 
corn-fields  the  leaves  on  the  stalks  had  with- 
ered to  dryness,  and  the  ears  were  bending 
downward,  laden  to  the  full  with  grain.  Thus 
was  seen  another  wise  precaution  of  Nature  to 
protect  the  precious  kernels.  In  this  way  rain 
and  moisture  were  shed  from  the  ear,  instead 
of  running  down  inside  and  rotting  the  corn. 

Joe  and  his  father  and  Tom  Ralston  made 
an  examination  one  day  in  mid-Septembe  . 
They  pronounced  the  grain  fully  cured  and 
ready  to  gather. 

325 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Guess  we'd  better  make  arrangements  to 
have  some  witnesses  here,  hadn't  we?"  asked 
Joe. 

"Reckon  we  had.  We'll  invite  Squire  Allen 
to  come  over  an'  make  the  anydavies.  I'll  get 
Bill  Tomlinson  and  Henry  Wilson  to  come  an' 
weigh  an'  check  it,"  said  Mr.  Weston.  "We'll 
kill  a  plenty  of  chickens  an'  have  a  chicken 
dinner  for  'em;  get  your  ma  to  make  a  good 
pot-pie  an'  fried  chicken,  an'  such." 

"That  '11  be  fine,  and  you  and  me  and  Link 
and  Tom  can  gather  the  corn.  It  will  be  pretty 
slow  work;  remember,  there's  really  four  grades 
of  corn  in  that  patch,  and  we've  got  to  keep  'em 
all  separate,"  said  Joe. 

"Well,  we'll  have  to  rigger  it  up  by  weight 
rather  than  by  measure,  then,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 
"The  squire  has  got  a  pair  of  steelyards,  an* 
we'll  let  him  do  the  weighin'  so  there  can't  be 
any  question  whatever  about  the  total." 

"All  right,  pa;  le's  ride  over  this  evening  and 
invite  'em  for  Tuesday?" 

"Suits  me,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

The  squire,  who  was  justice  of  the  peace  for 
the  township,  accepted  the  invitation,  as  did 
the  other  two.  Both  of  them  were  men  of 
standing  in  the  community.  Mrs.  Weston  and 
Annie  were  in  quite  a  commotion  over  the  prepa- 
ration of  an  adequate  dinner,  and  promised  to 

326 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

have  one  that  would  do  justice  to  the  occa- 
sion. 

Bright  and  early  Tuesday,  therefore,  the 
jovial  squire  drove  up  in  his  buggy.  He  was 
welcomed  by  Joe  and  his  father.  His  horse 
was  unhitched  and  put  in  the  pasture.  Two 
posts,  seven  feet  high,  had  been  sunk  in  the 
ground  five  feet  apart  near  the  prize  acre,  and 
a  beam  nailed  across  the  top  to  swing  the  scales 
to.  A  big  box,  with  four  wires  adjusted  so  it 
could  be  easily  hung  on  the  scales,  was  ready. 
The  squire  took  its  weight — six  pounds,  even. 
Mr.  Tomlinson  and  Mr.  Wilson  arrived,  and 
they  also  weighed  the  box  and  agreed  on  the 
weight,  which  was  noted  in  the  brand-new 
account-book  Joe  had  furnished  to  keep  the 
record  of  weights  in. 

''My  land,  Joe,  you  ain't  goin'  to  pull  an' 
shuck  all  that  corn,  are  you?"  inquired  Mr. 
Tomlinson.  "Rest  of  the  Corn  Club  boys  has 
their  acre  estimated." 

".I  don't  want  any  estimate;  I  want  to 
know,"  replied  Joe. 

"Four  of  us  are  goin'  to  work,"  said  Mr. 
Weston.  "We'll  clean  it  up  heap  sooner'n  you 
think." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  kickin';  just  thought  you  was 
makin'  a  heap  of  trouble  for  yourself,"  said  the 
visitor. 

327 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Chairs  were  brought  out  for  the  three  men, 
and  Joe  and  his  father  invaded  the  acre,  going 
in  an  orderly  and  careful  way,  starting  at  the 
first  row,  up  one  row  and  down  another,  getting 
the  ears  from  the  five-ear  stalks.  Each  gatherer 
had  a  sack  swung  about  his  neck.  In  all,  there 
were  about  three  bushels  of  this  corn.  They 
shucked  the  ears  as  they  pulled.  Then  it  was 
placed  in  the  box,  weighed,  and  each  boxful 
was  recorded  in  the  book. 

After  the  five-ear  corn  had  been  gathered  and 
stored  in  a  box  at  the  house,  because  of  its  great 
value,  the  four-ear  corn  was  tackled.  There 
were  some  twenty -five  bushels  of  this.  As  each 
box  was  swung  on  the  scales  and  weighed  the 
number  of  pounds  was  set  down  in  the  record. 

Tom  Ralston  and  Link  had  arrived  by  this 
time,  and  they  were  put  at  work  with  Joe  and 
his  father,  gathering  the  three-ear  corn.  Some- 
thing over  sixty  bushels  of  this  was  got,  and 
the  bell  rang  for  dinner. 

It  was  a  fine,  hearty  meal,  and  cooked  in  the 
very  best  of  style.  Mrs.  Weston  blushingly  re- 
ceived the  compliments  of  the  guests  and  noted 
with  satisfaction  the  full  justice  the  men  did 
to  the  viands  set  before  them. 

The  guests  and  the  Westons  sat  on  the  front 
porch  for  a  while  after  dinner  while  the  men 
smoked  their  pipes.     All  three  of  the  visitors, 

328 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

practical  farmers,  were  lavish  in  their  praise 
of  the  corn. 

"If  I  hadn't  V  seen  it  with  my  own  eyes,  I 
wouldn't  'a'  believed  it,"  observed  the  squire. 
"I  been  hearin'  a  lot  about  what  these  Corn 
Club  boys  been  doin',  but  I  thought  it  was 
mostly  talk.  But  that  corn  beats  anything  I 
ever  seen." 

Joe  had  slipped  away,  and  came  back  with 
three  bundles  of  three  ears  each.  He  presented 
a  bundle  to  each  guest. 

"That  corn  will  average  four  ears  to  the 
stalk,"  he  said.  "I  will  build  it  up  to  five  ears 
in  three  more  years,  but  right  now  there  isn't 
anything  in  this  county  that  '11  touch  it.  I 
want  you  to  take  it  with  my  compliments  and 
give  it  a  chance.  Don't  plant  it  near  any  other 
corn,  and  see  for  yourself  what  it  will  do." 

They  were  profuse  in  their  expressions  of 
pleasure  at  getting  a  start  of  the  famous  corn, 
and  asked  many  questions  of  Joe  and  his  father 
as  to  how  he  managed  to  get  such  a  tremendous 
crop  from  a  small  piece  of  land.  As  they 
adjourned  to  the  acre  Wilson  and  Tomlinson 
pulled  off  their  coats. 

"You  got  all  that  special  seed-corn  out  of 
there,  ain't  you,  Joe?"  asked  Mr.  Wilson. 

"Yes,  sir.    Why?" 

"Well,  we  got  to  have  some  exercise,"  said 
329 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

Tomlinson.  "We're  so  full  o'  fried  chicken  an* 
chicken-pie  that  if  we  don't  move  about  we'll 
go  to  settin'  pretty  soon." 

"All  right,  glad  to  have  the  help.  Pitch  in," 
said  Mr.  Weston,  genially. 

They  did,  and  with  a  will.  With  six  persons 
pulling  and  husking,  fine  progress  was  made. 
After  it  was  weighed  it  was  dumped  in  the 
wagon-bed,  and  when  the  wagon  was  full  it 
was  hauled  to  a  new  rat-proof  crib  and  stored. 
At  five  o'clock  the  last  ear  had  been  gathered, 
and  the  three  men  retired  to  the  house  to  add 
up  the  totals  and  reduce  the  weight  to  bushels. 

Joe  went  with  them  and  presented  his  record 
of  expenditures,  then  returned  to  the  field, 
where  he  and  Link  and  Tom  and  Mr.  Weston 
began  gathering  up  the  shucks  to  be  stored  for 
feed  and  bedding  for  the  cattle  in  the  winter- 
time. After  a  while  the  squire  called  from  the 
front  porch,  and  beckoned  Joe  to  come  there. 
Joe  and  his  father  went  up,  accompanied  by 
Tom,  to  hear  the  verdict. 

"Well,  Joe,"  said  the  squire,  "we've  been 
over  all  this  mighty  careful.  Each  man  has 
added  it,  and  agreed  on  the  total.  Each  man 
has  divided  it  into  bushels,  an'  our  figgers 
tally.  Then  we  went  over  the  expense  an' 
figgered  that  out,  too,  an'  applied  it  pro  rata 
per  bushel." 

330 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

4 'Yes,  sir,"  said  Joe,  a  lump  in  his  throat. 
"What  does  it  make?" 

"You've  done  a  plumb  ree-markable  thing; 
you've  made  two  hundred  an*  thirty-three 
bushels  o'  corn  on  that  acre!"  announced  the 
squire,  impressively.  "I  wouldn't  'a'  believed 
it  unless  I  seen  it  an'  weighed  it,  but  that's 
what  it  is.  The  figgers  are  right  an'  the  weights 
are  right." 

"That's  just  bully!"  said  Joe,  with  glowing 
eyes.     "I  did  not  think  it  would  run  that  high." 

"Beats  anything  I  ever  seen!"  exclaimed 
Tomlinson. 

"But  what  about  the  cost?"  inquired  Joe, 
anxiously. 

"Well,  sir,  accordin'  to  the  ree-cords,  you've 
made  this  here  corn  at  a  cost  of  thirteen  and  a 
half  cents  a  bushel!" 

Joe  threw  his  hat  in  the  air  and  gave  a  yell 
of  joy,  in  which  he  was  joined  by  Tom. 

"I  would  have  been  tickled  to  death  to  have 
done  it  on  from  sixteen  to  twenty!"  he  exulted. 
"They  can't  beat  me  to  save  their  lives;  I've 
got  'em  beat!" 

"Looks  like  it  to  me!"  enthused  Mr.  Weston. 

"Come  on  in  here,  now,  Joe,  an'  make  the 
affydavies  I  writ  out  to  the  cost  and  the  ree-cord 
of  work  an'  all,  so  there  can't  be  no  question 
about  it.     I  brought  my  seal  with  me,  an'  I'll 

33i 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

swear  you  to  it.  Then  this  committee  will 
certify  to  it  and  swear  to  the  weights  an'  riggers; 
we'll  attach  the  ree-cord  of  weights  to  the  cer- 
tificate/' said  the  squire. 

"Nothin'  like  doin'  things  up  ship -shape 
with  an  affydavy,"  solemnly  advised  Mr.  Tom- 
linson. 

"  No,  we're  all  powerful  proud  of  what  youVe 
done,  Joe,  an'  we  don't  want  no  slip-up  at  the 
last  minute,"  said  Mr.  Wilson.  "We  want  our 
county  to  take  the  prize  over  all  of  'em  again." 

"You  goin'  in  for  the  prize  at  the  County 
Fair  next  week?"  inquired  the  squire,  after  the 
papers  were  all  fixed. 

"No,  sir.  I  told  the  boys  I  would  not  com- 
pete with  'em  on  yield,  because  I've  had  experi- 
ence. This  is  the  first  year  for  about  nine- 
tenths  of  'em." 

"That's  powerful  clever  of  you,"  approved 
Tomlinson. 

"Sure  is.  You  could  take  the  prize  all  right, 
I  reckon,"  said  Mr.  Wilson. 

"I  guess  so,  but  I'll  submit  a  dozen  ears  in 
competition  for  the  prize  for  best  dozen  ears. 
I  need  that  twenty-five  dollars  to  go  to  the 
State  Fair  on,  where  the  real  big  fight  will  be," 
said  Joe. 

"Well,  good  luck  to  ye.  We've  had  a  fine 
time  to-day,  and  I  guess  we've  all  learned  some- 

332 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

thin',"  said  the  judge.  "I  know  I  have.  I'm 
goin'  to  try  some  of  this  intensive  farmin\  If 
a  feller  can  make  one  and  two  hundred  bushels 
to  the  acre  it's  better'n  scratchin'  over  so  much 
ground  like  we  do.  Yep,  I  think  I've  learned 
somethin'  to-day — considerable  something"  he 
said,  as  he  shook  hands  and  climbed  in  his 
buggy  for  the  homeward  trip. 

"Me,  too/'  said  Tomlinson.  "It  ain't  goin' 
to  be  five  years  till  a  farmer  in  this  county 
that  makes  less  than  forty  bushels  to  the  acre 
is  goin'  to  be  counted  a  doggone  poor  farmer 
an*  too  shiftless  to  live — mark  what  I  tell  you. 
We're  all  havin'  our  eyes  opened." 

Tom  Ralston  stayed  to  supper,  and  it  was  a 
happy  and  jubilant  party.  After  supper  they 
began  sorting  over  the  corn  by  lantern-light,  to 
pick  out  a  dozen  ears  to  try  for  the  prize  ear 
competition  at  the  County  Fair,  and  the  State 
Fair,  also.  By  bedtime  they  had  found  only 
three  ears  that  came  up  to  Joe's  idea  of  per- 
fection. 

Next  day  the  hunt  for  fine  ears  went  forward. 
Two  surprisingly  fine  ones  were  found  among 
the  common  run  of  the  corn.  During  the  course 
of  the  search  every  ear  had  been  handled,  and 
the  result  was  about  a  bushel  and  a  half  of 
beautiful  corn. 

Then  came  the  work  of  sorting  this  down  to 
333 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

twelve.  Joe  marked  the  different  varieties  with 
thread  of  different  color  tied  about  the  ears 
after  he  had  selected  the  dozen.  Everything 
was  then  in  readiness  for  the  County  Fair  the 
following  week. 

Mr.  Weston  hitched  up  the  team  next  Mon- 
day early.  Tom  Ralston  came  along  on  his 
pony;  Mrs.  Weston  and  Annie  were  in  the 
wagon,  and  Link  had  a  place  in  there,  too. 
The  colored  boy  had  worked  most  faithfully, 
and  was  enthused  over  learning  about  agricul- 
ture, so  he  was  given  the  trip  also. 

Joe  entered  his  dozen  ears  of  corn,  and  it 
was  placed  with  merely  a  number  on  it — no 
name.  The  corn  expert  of  the  state  and  the 
Commissioner  of  Agriculture  and  an  agent  of 
the  federal  Department  of  Agriculture  were  the 
judges. 

The  Corn  Club  exhibit  of  the  county  was 
good — three  times  as  good  as  that  of  the  previous 
year.  The  best  record  presented  was  a  hundred 
and  one  bushels  on  an  acre.  Some  of  the  boys 
were  much  disturbed  when  they  found  Joe 
Weston  was  on  the  ground,  but  were  reassured 
when  he  repeated  that  he  would  not  compete 
except  for  the  best  dozen  ears. 

When  the  prize-winners  were  announced  he 
got  the  twenty-five  dollars  in  a  walk;  no  one 
came  near  him  on  it. 

334 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"I  doubt  if  there's  another  dozen  ears  in  the 
entire  state  that  can  equal  them,,,  said  the  great 
authority  on  corn,  who  did  the  grading,  as  he 
pinned  the  blue  ribbon  on  the  exhibit  and 
handed  Joe  Weston  two  ten-dollar  gold  pieces 
and  a  five. 

As  they  drove  home  that  evening  Joe  was 
jubilant. 

"Pa,  you've  got  to  go  to  the  State  Fair  with 
me,"  he  commanded. 

"Oh,  shucks,  Joe!  I  can't  spare  the  money 
nor  the  time." 

"I'm  paying  for  this;  it's  my  treat,  and  this 
twenty-five  dollars  will  see  us  through  in  great 
shape.  It  will  keep  you  from  getting  behind 
the  times.  I  want  you  to  see  that  fair.  We'll 
spend  three  days;  it's  educational." 

"What  about  the  work  on  the  place?"  began 
Mr.  Weston. 

"Nothing  to  do  next  week  except  look  after 
the  stock.  Link  can  do  that,  and  I'll  hire  his 
father  three  days  out  of  the  money  I  get  for 
teaching  Tom." 

"I'm  powerful  rusty  on  clo'es,"  wavered  Mr. 
Weston. 

"There'll  be  such  a  crowd  there  nobody  will 
notice  your  clothes,"  assured  Joe. 

"Take  your  ma  an'  Annie,  instead,"  said  Mr. 
Weston. 

335 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"We're  going  to  stay  right  here,  now,  pa. 
You  ain't  had  a  holiday  in  I  don't  know  when. 
I  want  you  to  go;  we  ain't  going  a  step,"  said 
his  wife. 

"Oh,  all  right,  then,"  succumbed  Mr.  Weston. 

Really  he  was  as  excited  as  Joe  was  when  he 
was  about  to  take  the  trip  to  Washington.  He 
had  never  been  to  the  state  capital,  and  had 
never  seen  a  real,  sure-enough  big  fair. 

So  it  was  settled  that  they  would  leave  the 
following  Tuesday  on  the  train  which  passed 
the  town  at  eight  o'clock,  and  Tom  Ralston  was 
to  go  with  them. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

JOE,  Mr.  Weston,  and  Tom  Ralston  were 
ensconsed  on  the  train  bound  for  the  fair. 
It  was  packed  with  a  jolly  crowd  of  visitors 
for  the  same  destination. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  father  will  meet  us  there," 
said  Tom  Ralston,  joyfully.  "I  wired  him  last 
week  we  would  leave  to-day.  He  said  last 
spring  he  wanted  to  see  the  fair  and  would  try 
to  get  down  in  time,  so  I  heard  from  him  yes- 
terday. He's  already  there,  and  has  engaged 
quarters  for  us  at  the  hotel." 

"I'll  be  mighty  glad  to  see  him,"  said  Joe. 
"And  I  guess  it's  a  good  thing  he  has  rooms  for 
us.  I  saw  in  the  paper  that  there  was  such  a 
crowd  in  town  that  all  the  places  were  filled  up 
and  folks  were  sleeping  in  chairs  in  the  hotel 
lobbies." 

"I'm  glad  he's  fixed  it,  too,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 
"I  ain't  much  on  this  chair-snoozin'.  Every 
time  I  go  to  sleep  in  my  chair  it  gives  me  a 
crick  in  my  neck." 

They  arrived  at  the  capital  city  a  bit  before 
noon.     Streets  and  stores  were  gay  with  banners 

22  337 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

and  bunting;  bands  were  parading;  and  an  ex- 
cited, eager  stream  of  people  extended  from  the 
depot,  where  several  excursion  trains  were  dis- 
charging their  loads. 

Mr.  Ralston  was  watching  for  the  party,  and 
seized  on  them  at  once,  shaking  hands  jubi- 
lantly. 

" My,  my,  it's  a  sight  for  sore  eyes  to  see  you! 
IVe  been  here  a  day  and  a  half;  and,  say,  this 
fair  is  great!  It's  a  liberal  education  to  see  it. 
I'm  coming  every  year.  And  such  stock!  Why, 
I  never  saw  the  like  of  fine  cows — " 

"Any  muley  black  ones?"  innocently  inquired 
Tom.  His  father  gulped,  began  to  turn  red, 
and  grinned  sheepishly. 

"Now,  Tom;  now,Tom!"  he  began,  pleadingly. 

"I  just  wanted  to  know;  I  think  the  muley 
ones  are  the  safest;  they  can't  hook — only 
butt,"  said  Tom,  demurely.  Mr.  Ralston 
grinned. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so;  and  if  we  ever  buy  any 
more  cows  I'm  strong  for  the  muley  kind,"  he 
said. 

"Look  here,  what's  the  joke?"  demanded  Joe 
Weston. 

"Oh,  just  a  little  private  one  between  us," 
said  Tom.     "I  can't  give  it  away  yet." 

"Come  on  up  to  our  rooms  and  wash  up. 
We'll  get  some  dinner  first,  then  go  to  the  fair 

338 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

afterward.     We  can  get  supper  there,"  suggested 
Mr.  Ralston. 

He  had  got  two  handsome  adjoining  rooms, 
and  after  the  dust  of  travel  had  been  removed 
from  the  new  arrivals  Mr.  Ralston  handed  Joe 
the  morning  paper. 

"They  are  expecting  you,  Joe,"  he  said. 
"Big  write-up  of  the  Corn  Club  contest,  and 
you  seem  to  be  considered  the  man  they've 
all  got  to  beat;  it's  the  field  against  you." 
Joe  saw  his  name  in  big  type  in  the  headlines. 

"I  think  I've  got  'em  tied  out,"  he  said,  con- 
fidently, as  he  showed  Mr.  Ralston  the  record. 

"Why,  gee  whiz,  you  are  as  certain  to  win 
on  this  showing  as  we  are  to  go  downstairs!" 
the  manufacturer  exulted.  "That's  fine.  And 
I'm  going  to  send  Tom  along  with  you,  if  you 
don't  mind,  for  a  year  at  that  school." 

"Suits  me  all  right;  it  will  be  just  fine!" 
heartily  agreed  Joe  Weston. 

"I  looked  into  the  matter  of  the  prize,"  said 
Mr.  Weston.  "That  scholarship  is  wuth  five 
hundred  dollars.  The  fair  management  got  it 
for  less  on  account  of  the  advertising,  but  if  you 
want  they'll  commute  it  for  three  hundred 
dollars  cash;  that's  what  they  are  actually  to 
pay  for  it,  I  understand." 

"No,  sir;  if  I  win  I  want  that  scholarship," 
said  Joe. 

339 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Yes,  that's  wuth  more  than  the  money,  by 
a  heap,"  agreed  Mr.  Weston. 

"All  right,  let's  go  down  and  eat!"  suggested 
their  host,  and  led  the  way  to  the  crowded 
dining-room. 

The  four  were  seated  at  a  table  placed  close 
to  another  one.  At  the  next  table  were  three 
men,  and  one  with  his  back  to  them  was  talk- 
ing. Evidently,  from  his  conversation,  he  was 
a  County  Superintendent  of  Education  from 
somewhere  in  the  state.  He  talked  in  rather  a 
loud  voice,  and  every  word  of  what  he  said  was 
audible. 

"What  I  am  afraid  of,"  said  he,  "is  that  Joe 
Weston,  the  state  champion  of  last  year,  will 
enter."  The  mention  of  Joe's  name  made  his 
party  prick  up  their  ears. 

"If  Joe  Weston  ain't  in  it  I  think  my  boy 
will  win  the  prize,  and  I  am  dreadfully  anxious 
for  him  to.  I  never  did  have  my  heart  so  set 
on  anything,"  he  continued. 

"Any  special  reason?"  said  one  of  the  men 
at  his  table,  helping  himself  to  a  stalk  of  celery 
and  munching  idly  away  on  it. 

"Yes,  there  is,"  asserted  the  school-teacher, 
earnestly.  "The  most  urgent  reasons.  You 
see,  this  boy  I  am  interested  in  is  only  fifteen 
years  old.  He's  the  eldest  of  four  children,  all 
three  considerably  younger  than  he  is.     His 

340 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

mother  is  a  widow — been  so  for  four  years  now. 
Her  husband  was  a  trifling  drunkard  who  mis- 
treated them  and  died,  leaving  them  absolutely- 
destitute  and  on  the  hands  of  charity.  And  this 
boy  has  been  the  man  of  the  family  ever  since.' ' 

"Too  bad,  too  bad!"  said  the  other  of  the 
listeners. 

"They  moved  out  in  the  edge  of  town  on 
this  little  patch  of  ground  and  in  a  tumble- 
down cabin.  The  church  ladies  helped  them 
out  that  first  year.  The  mother  took  in  sewing. 
The  children  gathered  dandelion  greens,  and 
pokeberry  shoots  for  salad,  and  blackberries. 
The  Lord  only  knows  how  they  got  through 
that  first  year.  Then  a  good-hearted  man  gave 
them  a  cow,  and  the  ladies  gave  a  few  chickens. 
They  sold  milk  and  eggs,  and  that  helped.' ' 

"I  don't  reckon  anybody  could  get  closer  to 
bed-rock  poverty  than  that,"  said  the  first 
listener,  with  a  shudder. 

"They  could  not !"  asserted  the  school-teacher. 
"Then  this  boy,  Henry,  he's  been  like  a  father 
to  those  children.  He  works  from  daylight  to 
dark.  He  put  in  a  sort  of  a  garden  the  next 
year;  that  helped  give  a  living,  and  he  peddled 
some  vegetables  from  it,  and  worked  at  odd 
jobs.  He's  kept  on  hauling  manure  out  there 
on  that  land  and  got  it  pretty  rich.  There  are 
seven  acres  in  the  place." 

34i 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Why,  that's  fine!"  said  one  of  the  men. 

"The  garden  was  better  the  next  year,  and 
the  cow  had  a  calf,  and  that  promises  to  be  a 
good  cow.  They've  got  more  chickens,  and 
make  plenty  to  eat;  and  he  sells  more,  and 
those  children  are  able  to  go  to  school  in  winter 
now,  thanks  to  Henry.  And  this  year  he 
squeezed  in  three  months  himself — the  first 
schooling  he  ever  had." 

' '  My,  my,  what  a  tough  time  that  boy  has  had !" 

"Indeed,  yes;  but  not  a  whimper  from  Henry. 
He's  got  the  heart  of  a  Roman  soldier  in  him. 
And,  do  you  know,  the  old  skinflint  that  owns 
that  place  has  gone  to  charging  that  poor  out- 
cast rent  on  it?" 

"Oh,  you  don't  say — the  old  rascal!"  cho- 
rused the  two  men. 

"Fact.  Why,  that  place  was  in  such  bad 
shape  a  nigger  family  moved  out  of  it  before 
these  folks  were  dumped  there  by  the  Ladies 
of  Charity.  That  old  rascal  has  given  an 
option  on  the  place  for  four  hundred  dollars 
to  a  friend  of  mine.  If  Henry  can  buy  the 
place  and  stop  the  drain  for  rent  they'll  get 
along  fine.  Rent  ain't  much,  but  a  nickel 
looks  as  big  to  them  as  a  cart-wheel." 

Mr.  Ralston  looked  at  Joe.  He  was  white, 
and  breathing  hard,  and  straining  his  ears  to 
catch  every  word. 

343 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"So,"  continued  the  school-teacher,  "if  he 
wins  he  can  commute  this  scholarship  for  three 
hundred  and  make  nearly  another  hundred  off 
the  corn  he  sells.  I'll  personally  see  that  the 
balance  is  made  up  and  enough  is  raised  to 
buy  him  a  good  mule  and  wagon.  If  he  gets 
the  chance  he'll  actually  make  and  save  money 
there.  If  he  loses  on  this  I  believe  it  will  be 
the  last  straw.  I  actually  believe  it  will  break 
his  heart — his  spirit — and  take  the  fight  out  of 
him." 

"What's  his  record?"  inquired  the  other  man. 

"Two  hundred  and  fifteen  bushels  at  fifteen 
cents." 

"That's  wonderful!"  said  the  first  listener. 

"Well,  he's  an  experienced  gardener  by  now, 
but  it's  a  fine  record.  No  record  filed  up  to 
this  time  equals  it,  so  I  say  that  Joe  Weston  is 
the  only  one  I  am  afraid  of.  A  few  have  made  a 
few  more  bushels  than  Henry  has,  but  the  cost 
was  so  much  greater.  Why,  guess  what  that 
boy  did?" 

"Can't  imagine?" 

"He  went  around  town  and  cleaned  out  every 
chicken-house  in  town  to  get  the  guano;  he 
couldn't  afford  to  spend  much  money  on  ferti- 
lizer!    What  do  you  think  of  that  for  resource?" 

"Just  splendid;  and  I  hope  the  little  chap 
wins!"  said  the  listener,  heartily, 

343 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

There  was  very  little  talk  at  the  table  where 
Joe  and  his  father  sat.  Nor  did  Mr.  Ralston 
or  Tom  seem  inclined  to  break  the  silence. 
All  had  heard  the  words  of  the  man  at  the  next 
table,  and  all  seemed  depressed  and  the  life 
gone  out  of  them. 

When  the  meal  was  finished  they  went  to 
the  fair-grounds  and  made  for  the  Agricultural 
Hall,  where  the  Corn  Club  exhibits  were  the 
first  thing.  It  was  a  magnificent  array  and 
showing.  The  whole  party  went  into  ecstasies 
over  it. 

A  man  in  the  center  of  the  space  where  the 
Corn  Club  exhibit  was  began  shouting  some- 
thing through  a  megaphone.  They  stopped 
and  listened. 

"All  entries  for  the  contest  for  the  state 
championship  of  Boys'  Corn  Club  growers  will 
close  at  three  -  thirty,  positively.  No  records 
will  be  admitted  to  file  after  that  hour!"  he 
announced. 

"Half  an  hour,"  remarked  Mr.  Ralston,  look- 
ing at  his  watch  and  throwing  a  sidelong  glance 
at  Joe. 

"Plenty  of  time  yet,"  said  Joe,  easily.  "Le's 
go  look  at  the  stock." 

They  walked  back  to  the  stock  exhibit  down 
by  the  race-track,  a  considerable  distance  from 
the  Agricultural  Hall.    They  were  immersed  in 

344 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

admiring  the  beauties  of  fat,  splendid  cattle  on 
exhibition  when  Mr.  Ralston  pulled  his  watch 
from  his  pocket  again. 

"  Great  gracious,  Joe,  the  entries  will  close 
in  five  minutes!  You've  got  just  about  enough 
time  to  make  it  there.  Run!  Hurry  up!"  he 
urged. 

"I'm  not  going  to  enter,"  said  Joe,  quietly. 

"W-h-a-t!  Not  going  to  enter?"  gasped  his 
father. 

"No,  sir;  I  ain't."     He  said  it  determinedly. 

"Oh,  son,  don't  act  foolish;  don't  throw 
away  a  sure  thing  like  that!"  pleaded  his  father. 

"Go  on,  Joe.  You've  worked  too  hard  for 
this.     Go  in  and  win!"  said  Tom  Ralston. 

"I  ain't  going  to  do  it,"  replied  Joe,  doggedly. 
"If  I  took  the  prize  away  from  that  poor  boy 
taking  care  of  those  little  half -orphans  and  help- 
ing support  his  mother,  why — why — I  never 
could  sleep  at  night  again!" 

Mr.  Weston  moistened  his  lips,  which  were 
dry  with  excitement,  and  wiped  his  brow. 

"I — I  forgot  about  him,"  he  said,  slowly. 

"It  means  a  heap  more  to  him  than  going 
to  that  college  means  to  me — and  that's  a 
whole  lot,  as  you  know.  It  means  bread  and 
meat  and  a  chance  for  him  and  those  children. 
We  can  whirl  in  and  make  enough  money  by 
year  after  next  for  me  to  go  a  year.    We've 

345 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

got  a  home  and  our  feet  on  solid  ground;  those 
people  haven't.  I  can't  do  it,  folks — I  won't 
do  it!"  Joe  was  very  earnest  in  what  he 
said. 

"That's  so,  boy;  that's  so,"  said  Mr.  Wes- 
ton, gently  putting  his  arm  about  his  son's 
shoulders. 

"Just  think  how  much  my  winning  meant 
to  me — to  all  of  us — the  first  year,  and  what  it 
led  to,"  continued  Joe.  "Honest,  now,  daddy, 
you  wouldn't  have  me  enter?" 

"Not  for  a  thousand  dollars,  poor  as  we  are!" 
blurted  his  father.  "There's  folks  poorer  than 
us.  We've  got  our  start;  we  can  go  ahead. 
Le's  give  the  other  fellow  a  chance.  You're 
teetotally  right,  Joe." 

Mr.  Ralston  and  Tom  stood  by  in  silence. 
They  felt  that  this  was  a  matter  to  be  settled 
between  father  and  son,  without  any  outside 
interference  or  advice. 

"Entries  are  closed!"  remarked  Mr.  Ralston, 
in  the  lull  which  followed  Mr.  Weston's  speech. 
Joe  gave  a  long  breath. 

"I  do  hope  that  boy  wins!"  he  said. 

"Le's  all  go  see,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

There  was  no  need  to  ask  questions.  The 
radiant  face  of  the  County  Superintendent  who 
had  been  talking  at  the  hotel  was  answer 
enough,     Mr,  Ralston  went  up  to  him. 

34<5 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"Well,  your  boy  won?"  he  asked. 

"Thank  God,  yes!  It  meant  everything  to 
that  boy,  to  his  mother,  to  those  children!" 
he  said,  fervently. 

"What's  he  going  to  do — take  the  scholarship 
or  the  cash?"  inquired  Mr.  Ralston. 

"Oh,  he  can't  go  to  school;  he'll  take  the 
three  hundred  and  be  glad  to  get  it." 

"  Come  here  a  minute ;  I  want  to  talk  to  you," 
said  Mr.  Ralston,  in  a  low  voice.  They  stepped 
out  on  the  portico  of  the  building. 

"All  right,  sir?"  asked  the  superintendent. 

"Is  that  scholarship  his  to  do  as  he  pleases 
with?" 

"That  is  correct;  yes,  sir." 

"I'll  give  you  five  hundred  dollars  for  it." 

The  man  gasped,  and  stared  at  him  as  though 
he  did  not  comprehend. 

"I  mean  it;  I'm  not  joking.  If  your  boy  can 
sell  that  scholarship  I  will  give  you  five  hundred 
dollars  cash  for  it." 

"You've  sure  bought  it!"  said  the  man. 
"Come  on  up  to  the  office  of  the  fair  manage- 
ment and  we'll  trade  right  now!"  He  did  not 
even  wait  for  his  hat. 

On  arrival  there  the  management  confirmed 
the  fact  that  the  scholarship  was  the  property 
of  Henry  and  could  be  sold  or  used  as  he  pleased. 
The  County  Superintendent  showed  a  boyish 

347 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

scrawl  of  a  note  authorizing  him  to   act  for 
Henry. 

"He  couldn't  spare  the  time  to  come  up  here," 
he  said. 

Mr.  Ralston  laid  down  five  one -hundred- 
dollar  bills,  took  the  transfer  of  ownership  and 
the  scholarship  certificate  and  a  receipt. 

"But — I  don't  understand  why  you  are  doing 
this;  and  for  whom  is  it?"  queried  the  superin- 
tendent. 

For  answer,  Mr.  Ralston  tossed  over  to  him 
the  record  he  had  borrowed  from  Joe  Weston. 
The  man  glanced  at  it,  and  the  color  left  his 
face  a  moment. 

"Why — why — er — he  is  really  entitled  to  the 
prize!"  he  whispered,  apprehensively. 

"He  would  have  been — if  he  had  entered," 
corrected  Mr.  Ralston. 

"But — why  didn't  he  enter.  Too  late?"  said 
the  man. 

"No — too  big,"  said  Mr.  Ralston. 

"I  don't  just  understand — "  puzzled  the 
superintendent. 

"We  heard  you  talking  down  at  the  hotel 
to-day  at  dinner,"  said  Mr.  Ralston.  "We 
were  at  the  table  behind  you.  And  Joe  was 
just  too  big  and  too  fine  to  take  it  away  from 
a  chap  that  has  had  less  of  a  chance  than  he 
has," 

348 


JOE,   THE    BOOK    FARMER 

"And  who  are  you?"  asked  the  wondering 
school-teacher,  with  a  great  respect  in  his  voice 
and  manner. 

"I'm  just  a  'rich  Yankee,'  as  you  folks  down 
here  call  us,  that  likes  to  do  a  bit  of  good  once 
in  a  while  with  some  of  his  money,"  smiled  Mr. 
Ralston,  as  he  left  the  office. 

He  found  Joe  and  Tom  looking  at  the  Corn 
Club  displays. 

"Where  you  been?"  inquired  Mr.  Weston. 
"We  got  lost  from  you." 

"Oh,  I've  been  rambling  around  some  on  my 
own  hook,"  he  answered,  smilingly. 

"Well,  I  beat  'em  out  again  on  the  best 
twelve  ears — got  forty  dollars  as  a  prize  for 
that,  anyway!"  said  Joe,  jubilantly,  as  he  pointed 
to  the  blue  ribbon  on  his  corn  and  a  card  placed 
thereon  with  his  name  as  winner. 

"Want  to  sell  it?  I'll  give  you  three  dollars 
an  ear  for  it,"  queried  an  enterprising  seeds- 
man, bustling  up. 

"You  certainly  have  bought  twelve  ears  of 
corn!"  said  Joe.    "Where's  the  money?" 

"Here!"  said  the  man,  counting  it  out.  Joe 
wrote  a  receipt  and  an  order  for  the  twelve  ears 
to  be  delivered  to  him. 

"A  hundred  and  one  dollars  for  twelve  ears 
of  corn  is  a  sort  of  record-breaker  itself!"  said 
Joe.     "County  prize,  twenty-five  dollars;  state 

349 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

prize,  forty  dollars ;  and  three  dollars  an  ear  for 
the  corn." 

"You  bet  it's  a  record,"  said  Tom  Ralston. 

"Come  on,  le's  go  to  this  eating -place  an* 
get  supper  before  the  crowd  rushes  in.  I'm 
used  to  eatin'  early,"  said  Mr.  Weston. 

When  the  party  were  seated  and  the  waitress 
had  gone  for  their  order  Mr.  Ralston  looked  at 
Joe  intently. 

"Got  any  regrets  about  losing  that  scholar- 
ship, Joe?"  he  inquired. 

"Not  a  one,  sir;  I'd  do  it  again  in  a  minute 
if  I  had  the  chance!"  answered  Joe,  sturdily. 
"Just  think  how  much  it  means  to  those  folks, 
to  that  boy!  Well,  they've  got  their  chance 
now — like  I  had." 

"You've  still  got  yours,"  said  the  manufac- 
turer. "I  think,  Joe,  the  work  you  are  doing 
is  a  good  influence  in  the  county  and  in  the 
state.  It  has  been  a  help  to  me,  and  it  is  mak- 
ing a  fine  chap  out  of  Tom." 

"Oh  yes,  I'm  going  ahead,  but  it's  going  to 
put  off  my  trip  a  couple  of  years.  I'll  have  to 
wait  that  long  to  learn  some  of  the  fine  points 
of  farming — that's  all." 

"No,  it  is  not  going  to  put  it  off  one  day, 
Joe — not  one  day.  Here's  your  scholarship; 
take  it  as  a  slight  token  of  the  appreciation 
of  one  who  would  do  more  for  you  gladly  if 

3  So 


JOE,    THE    BOOK    FARMER 

there  was  any  way  to  do  it!"  Mr.  Ralston 
handed  over  the  certificate. 

"Hooray  ter  goodness!  Is  it  really  so?"  in- 
quired Mr.  Weston,  rising  out  of  his  seat. 

"It  sure  is,  pa;  and  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Ralston, 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  Will  the  poor 
boy  get  the  money  all  right?" 

"The  full  price,  Joe  —  five  hundred.  I  did 
not  want  you  to  think  you  had  taken  advantage 
of  him  for  a  penny.  He  got  two  hundred  more 
than  they  expected." 

"Well,  we'll  study  hard,  won't  we,  Tom,  and 
try  and  show  we  are  worth  it?"  said  Joe,  happily. 

"We'll  give  a  good  account  of  ourselves," 
asserted  his  chum. 

"And,  say,  I  do  hope  this  won't  get  in  the 
papers  and  make  that  poor  boy  feel  that  he 
really  didn't  win,  after  all — that  it  was  a  sort 
of  a  charity  scheme,  you  know?"  said  Joe, 
earnestly.  "The  way  a  thing  comes  to  a  person 
has  a  heap  to  do  with  the  enjoyment." 

"I've  fixed  that,"  said  Mr.  Ralston.  "It 
was  part  of  the  trade  with  the  superintendent 
that  he  would  keep  his  mouth  shut;  and  we 
won't  do  any  talking,  either." 

"My,  my,  but  this  has  turned  out  fine! 
Won't  mother  and  Annie  be  glad?"  asked  Joe 
Weston,  happily. 

THE   END 


